THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
Commodore  Byron  MoCandless 


JlE  GLARED  DEFIANTLY  ABOUT  HIM 


p.  86 


THE  FLAG 


By 

HOMER  GREENE 

Author  ol 

"  Ike   UnLallowed.   Harvest  " 
"Pickett's  Gap,"  "Tke  Blind  Brotker,"  etc. 


PHILADELPHIA 

GEORGE  W.  JACOBS  &  CO 

PUBLISHERS  . 


Copyright,  1917 
George  W.  Jacobs  $  Company 


All  rights  reserved 
Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


ft 

7 


<~ 

T 


List  of  Illustrations 

He  Glared  Defiantly  About  Him      Frontispiece 

Aleck  Turned  it  Upside  Down 
and  Rightside  Up,  But  Failed 
to  Find  the  Place  .  Facing  p.  54 

Into  the  Face  of  Death  He  Led 
the  Remnant  of  His  Brave 
Platoon  .  .  .  .  "  274 

The    French   Hospital's    Greeting 

to  the  American  Colonel  "          316 


957380 


THE  FLAG 

CHAPTER  I 

SNOW  everywhere;  freshly  fallen,  white  and 
beautiful.  It  lay  unsullied  on  the  village 
roofs,  and,  trampled  but  not  yet  soiled,  in  the 
village  streets.  The  spruce  trees  on  the  lawn 
at  Bannerhall  were  weighted  with  it,  and  on 
the  lawn  itself  it  rested,  like  an  ermine  blanket, 
soft  and  satisfying.  Down  the  steps  of  the 
porch  that  stretched  across  the  front  of  the 
mansion,  a  boy  ran,  whistling,  to  the  street. 

He  was  slender  and  wiry,  agile  and  sure- 
footed. He  had  barely  reached  the  gate  when 
the  front  door  of  the  square,  stately  old  brick 
house  was  opened  and  a  woman  came  out  on 
the  porch  and  called  to  him. 

"Pen!" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Millicent."  He  turned  to  listen 
to  her. 

"Pen,  don't  forget  that  your  grandfather's 


2  THE  FLAG 

going  to  New  York  on  the  five-ten  train,  and 
that  you  are  to  be  at  the  station  to  see  him 
off." 

"I  won't  forget,  auntie." 

"And  then  come  straight  home." 

"Straight  as  a  string,  Aunt  Milly." 

"All  right!     Good-by!" 

"Good-by!" 

He  passed  through  the  gate,  and  down  the 
street  toward  the  center  of  the  village.  It  was 
the  noon  recess  and  he  was  on  his  way  back  to 
school  where  he  must  report  at  one-fifteen 
sharp.  He  had  an  abundance  of  time,  how- 
ever, and  he  stopped  in  front  of  the  post-office 
to  talk  with  another  boy  about  the  coasting  on 
Drake's  Hill.  It  was  while  he  was  standing 
there  that  some  one  called  to  him  from  the 
street.  Seated  in  an  old-fashioned  cutter 
drawn  by  an  old  gray  horse  were  an  old  man 
and  a  young  woman.  The  woman's  face 
flushed  and  brightened,  and  her  eyes  shone  with 
gladness,  as  Pen  leaped  from  the  sidewalk  and 
ran  toward  her. 

"Why,  mother!"  he  cried.  "I  didn't  expect 
to  see  you.  Are  you  in  for  a  sleigh-ride?" 


THE  FLAG  3 

She  bent  over  and  kissed  him  and  patted 
his  cheek  before  she  replied, 

"Yes,  dearie.  Grandpa  had  to  come  to 
town ;  and  it's  so  beautiful  after  the  snow  that 
I  begged  to  come  along." 

Then  the  old  man,  round-faced  and  rosy, 
with  a  fringe  of  gray  whiskers  under  his  chin, 
and  a  green  and  red  comforter  about  his  neck, 
reached  out  a  mittened  hand  and  shook  hands 
with  Pen. 

"Couldn't  keep  her  to  hum,"  he  said,  "when 
she  seen  me  hitchin'  up  old  Charlie." 

He  laughed  good-naturedly  and  tucked  the 
buffalo-robe  in  under  him. 

"How's  grandma?"  asked  Pen. 

"Jest  about  as  usual,"  was  the  reply. 
"When  you  comin'  out  to  see  us?" 

"I  don't  know.  Maybe  a  week  from  Sat- 
urday. I'll  see." 

Then  Pen's  mother  spoke  again. 

"You  were  going  to  school,  weren't  you? 
We  won't  keep  you.  Give  my  love  to  Aunt 
Millicent;  and  come  soon  to  see  us." 

She  kissed  him  again ;  the  old  man  clicked  to 
his  horse,  and  succeeded,  after  some  effort,  in 


4  THE  FLAG 

starting  him,  and  Pen  returned  to  the  side- 
walk and  resumed  his  journey  toward  school. 

It  was  noticeable  that  no  one  had  spoken 
of  Colonel  Butler,  the  grandfather  with  whom 
Pen  lived  at  Bannerhall  on  the  main  street  of 
Chestnut  Hill.  There  was  a  reason  for  that. 
Colonel  Butler  was  Pen's  paternal  grandfa- 
ther; and  Colonel  Butler's  son  had  married 
contrary  to  his  father's  wish.  When,  a  few 
years  later,  the  son  died,  leaving  a  widow  and 
an  only  child,  Penfield,  the  colonel  had  so  far 
relented  as  to  offer  a  home  to  his  grandson, 
and  to  provide  an  annuity  for  the  widow.  She 
declined  the  annuity  for  herself,  but  accepted 
the  offer  of  a  home  for  her  son.  She  knew 
that  it  would  be  a  home  where,  in  charge  of  his 
aunt  Millicent,  her  boy  would  receive  every 
advantage  of  care,  education  and  culture.  So 
she  kissed  him  good-by  and  left  him  there,  and 
she  herself,  ill,  penniless  and  wretched,  went 
back  to  live  with  her  father  on  the  little  farm 
at  Cobb's  Corners,  five  miles  away.  But  all 
that  was  ten  years  before,  and  Pen  was  now 
fourteen.  That  he  had  been  well  cared  for 
was  manifest  in  his  clothing,  his  countenance, 


THE  FLAG  5 

his  bearing  and  his  whole  demeanor  as  he  hur- 
ried along  the  partly  swept  pavement  toward 
his  destination. 

A  few  blocks  farther  on  he  overtook  a 
school-fellow,  and,  as  they  walked  together, 
they  discussed  the  war. 

For  war  had  been  declared.  It  had  not  only 
been  declared,  it  was  in  actual  progress. 

Equipped  and  generalled,  stubborn  and  ag- 
gressive, the  opposing  forces  had  faced  each 
other  for  weeks.  Yet  it  had  not  been  a  san- 
guinary conflict.  Aside  from  a  few  bruised 
shins  and  torn  coats  and  missing  caps,  there 
had  been  no  casualties  worth  mentioning.  It 
was  not  a  country-wide  war.  It  was,  indeed, 
a  war  of  which  no  history  save  this  veracious 
chronicle,  gives  any  record. 

The  contending  armies  were  composed  of 
boys.  And  the  boys  were  residents,  respec- 
tively, of  the  Hill  and  the  Valley;  two  villages, 
united  under  the  original  name  of  Chestnut 
Hill,  and  so  closely  joined  together  that  it 
would  have  been  impossible  for  a  stranger  to 
tell  where  one  ended  and  the  other  began. 
The  Hill,  back  on  the  plateau,  had  the  ad- 


6  THE  FLAG 

vantage  of  age  and  the  prestige  that  wealth 
gives.  The  Valley,  established  down  on  the 
river  bank  when  the  railroad  was  built  through, 
had  the  benefit  of  youth  and  the  virtue  of  ag- 
gressiveness. Yet  they  were  mutually  inter- 
dependent. One  could  not  have  prospered 
without  the  aid  of  the  other.  When  the  new 
graded-school  building  was  erected,  it  was  lo- 
cated on  the  brow  of  the  hill  in  order  to  ac- 
commodate pupils  from  both  villages.  From 
that  time  the  boys  who  lived  on  the  hill  were 
called  Hilltops,  and  those  who  lived  in  the  val- 
ley were  called  Riverbeds.  Just  when  the 
trouble  began,  or  what  was  the  specific  cause 
of  it,  no  one  seemed  exactly  to  know.  Like 
Topsy,  it  simply  grew.  With  the  first  snow 
of  the  winter  came  the  first  physical  clash  be- 
tween the  opposing  forces  of  Hilltops  and 
Riverbeds.  It  was  a  mild  enough  encounter, 
but  it  served  to  whet  the  appetites  of  the  young 
combatants  for  more  serious  warfare.  Miss 
Grey,  the  principal  of  the  school,  was  troubled 
and  apprehensive.  She  had  encouraged  a 
friendly  rivalry  between  the  two  sets  of  boys 
in  matters  of  intellectual  achievement,  but  she 


THE  FLAG  7 

greatly  deprecated  sueh  a  state  of  hostility  as 
would  give  rise  to  harsh  feelings  or  physical 
violence.  She  knew  that  it  would  be  difficult, 
if  not  impossible,  to  coerce  them  into  peace  and 
harmony,  so  she  set  about  to  contrive  some 
method  by  which  the  mutual  interest  of  the 
boys  could  be  aroused  and  blended  toward  the 
accomplishment  of  a  common  object. 

The  procuring  of  an  American  flag  for  the 
use  of  the  school  had  long  been  talked  of,  and 
it  occurred  to  her  now  that  if  she  could  stimu- 
late a  friendly  rivalry  among  her  pupils,  in  an 
effort  to  obtain  funds  for  the  purchase  of  a 
flag,  it  might  divert  their  minds  from  thoughts 
of  hostility  to  each  other,  into  channels  where 
a  laudable  competition  would  be  provocative 
of  harmony.  So  she  decided,  after  consulta- 
tion with  the  two  grade  teachers,  to  prepare 
two  subscription  blanks,  each  with  its  proper 
heading,  and  place  them  respectively  in  the 
hands  of  Penfield  Butler  captain  of  the  Hill- 
tops, and  Alexander  Sands  commander  of  the 
Riverbeds.  The  other  pupils  would  be  in- 
structed to  fall  in  behind  these  leaders  and  see 
which  party  could  obtain,  not  necessarily  the 


8  THE  FLAG 

most  money,  but  the  largest  number  of  sub- 
scriptions. She  felt  that  interest  in  the  flag 
would  be  aroused  by  the  numbers  contributing 
rather  than  by  the  amount  contributed.  It 
was  during  the  session  of  the  school  that  after- 
noon that  she  made  the  announcement  of  her 
plan,  and  delivered  the  subscription  papers  to 
the  two  captains.  She  aroused  much  enthusi- 
asm by  the  little  speech  she  made,  dwelling  on 
the  beauty  and  symbolism  of  the  flag,  and  the 
patriotic  impulse  that  would  be  aroused  and 
strengthened  by  having  it  always  in  sight. 

No  one  questioned  the  fact  that  Pen  Butler 
was  the  leader  of  the  Hilltops,  nor  did  any  one 
question  the  similar  fact  that  Aleck  Sands  was 
the  leader  of  the  Riverbeds.  There  had  never 
been  any  election  or  appointment,  to  be  sure, 
but,  by  common  consent  and  natural  selection, 
these  two  had  been  chosen  in  the  beginning  as 
commanders  of  the  separate  hosts. 

When,  therefore,  the  subscription  blanks 
were  put  into  the  hands  of  these  boys  as  lead- 
ers, every  one  felt  that  nothing  would  be  left 
undone  by  either  to  win  fame  and  honor  for 
his  party  in  the  matter  of  the  flag. 


THE  FLAG  9 

So,  when  the  afternoon  session  of  school 
closed,  every  one  had  forgotten,  for  the  time 
being  at  least,  the  old  rivalry,  and  was  ready  to 
enlist  heartily  in  the  new  one. 

There  was  fine  coasting  that  day  on  Drake's 
Hill.  The  surface  of  the  road-bed,  hard  and 
smooth,  had  been  worn  through  in  patches,  but 
the  snow-fall  of  the  night  before  had  so 
dressed  it  over  as  to  make  it  quite  perfect  for 
this  exhilarating  winter  sport. 

As  he  left  the  school-house  Pen  looked  at 
his  watch,  a  gift  from  his  grandfather  Butler 
on  his  last  birthday,  and  found  that  he  would 
have  more  than  half  an  hour  in  which  to  enjoy 
himself  at  coasting  before  it  would  be  neces- 
sary to  start  for  the  railroad  station  to  see 
Colonel  Butler  off  on  the  train.  So,  with  his 
companions,  he  went  to  Drake's  Hill.  It  was 
fine  sport  indeed.  The  bobs  had  never  before 
descended  so  swiftly  nor  covered  so  long  a 
stretch  beyond  the  incline.  But,  no  matter 
how  fascinating  the  sport,  Pen  kept  his  engage- 
ment in  mind  and  intended  to  leave  the  hill  in 
plenty  of  time  to  meet  it.  There  were  especial 
reasons  this  day  why  he  should  do  so.  In  the 


10  THE  FLAG 

first  place  Colonel  Butler  would  be  away  from 
home  for  nearly  a  week,  and  it  had  always  been 
Pen's  custom  to  see  his  grandfather  off  on  a 
journey,  even  though  he  were  to  be  gone  but 
a  day.  And  in  the  next  place  he  wanted  to  be 
sure  to  get  Colonel  Butler's  name  at  the  head 
of  his  flag  subscription  list.  This  would  doubt- 
less be  the  most  important  contribution  to  be 
made  to  the  fund. 

At  half-past  four  he  decided  to  take  one  more 
ride  and  then  start  for  the  station.  But  on 
that  ride  an  accident  occurred.  The  bobs  on 
which  the  boys  were  seated  collapsed  midway 
of  the  descent,  and  threw  the  coasters  into  a 
heap  in  the  ditch.  None  of  them  was  ser- 
iously hurt,  though  the  loose  stones  among 
which  they  were  thrown  were  not  sufficiently 
cushioned  by  the  snow  to  prevent  some  bruises, 
and  abrasions  of  the  skin.  Of  course  there 
was  much  confusion  and  excitement.  There 
was  scrambling,  and  rubbing  of  hurt  places, 
and  an  immediate  investigation  into  the  cause 
of  the  wreck.  In  the  midst  of  it  all  Pen  for- 
got about  his  engagement.  When  the  matter 
did  recur  to  his  mind  he  glanced  at  his  watch 


THE  FLAG  11 

and  found  that  it  lacked  but  twelve  minutes  of 
train  time.  It  would  be  only  by  hard  sprint- 
ing and  rare  good  luck  that  he  would  be  able 
to  reach  the  station  in  time  to  see  his  grand- 
father off.  Without  a  word  of  explanation 
to  his  fellows  he  started  away  on  a  keen  run. 
They  looked  after  him  in  open-mouthed  won- 
der. They  could  not  conceive  what  had  hap- 
pened to  him.  One  boy  suggested  that  he  had 
been  frightened  out  of  his  senses  by  the  shock 
of  the  accident ;  and  another  that  he  had  struck 
his  head  against  a  rock  and  had  gone  tempo- 
rarily insane,  and  that  he  ought  to  be  followed 
to  see  that  he  did  no  harm  to  himself.  But  no 
one  offered  to  go  on  such  a  mission,  and,  after 
watching  the  runner  out  of  sight,  they  turned 
their  attention  again  to  the  wrecked  bobs. 

Aleck  Sands  went  straight  from  school  to 
his  home  in  the  valley.  There  were  afternoon 
chores  to  be  done,  and  he  was  anxious  to  finish 
them  as  soon  as  possible  in  order  that  he  might 
start  out  with  his  subscription  paper. 

He  did  not  hope  to  equal  Pen  in  the  amount 
of  contributions,  for  he  had  no  wealthy  grand- 
father on  whom  to  depend,  but  he  did  intend 


12  THE  FLAG 

to  excel  him  in  the  number  of  subscribers. 
And  it  was  desirable  that  he  should  be  early 
in  the  field. 

It  was  almost  dusk  when  he  started  from 
home  to  go  to  the  grist-mill  of  which  his  father 
was  the  proprietor.  He  wanted  to  get  his  fa- 
ther's signature  first,  both  as  a  matter  of  policy 
and  as  a  matter  of  filial  courtesy. 

As  he  approached  the  railroad  station,  which 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  pass  on  his  way  to 
the  mill,  he  saw  Colonel  Butler  pacing  up  and 
down  the  platform  which  faced  the  town,  and, 
at  every  turn,  looking  anxiously  up  the  street. 

It  was  evident  that  the  colonel  was  waiting 
for  the  train,  and  it  was  just  as  evident  that 
he  was  expecting  some  one,  probably  Pen,  to 
come  to  the  station  to  see  him  off.  And  Pen 
was  nowhere  in  sight. 

A  brilliant  and  daring  thought  entered 
Aleck's  mind.  While,  ordinarily,  he  was 
neither  brilliant  nor  daring,  yet  he  was  intel- 
ligent, quick  and  resourceful.  He  was  always 
ready  to  meet  an  emergency.  The  idea  that 
had  taken  such  sudden  possession  of  him  was 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  an  impulse  to  so- 


THE  FLAG  13 

licit  Colonel  Butler  for  a  subscription  to  the 
flag  fund  and  thus  forestall  Pen.  And  why 
not?  He  knew  of  nothing  to  prevent.  Pen 
had  no  exclusive  right  to  subscriptions  from 
the  Hill,  any  more  than  he,  Aleck,  had  to  sub- 
scriptions from  the  Valley.  And  if  he  could 
be  first  to  obtain  a  contribution  from  Colonel 
Butler,  the  most  important  citizen  of  Chestnut 
Hill,  if  not  of  the  whole  county,  what  plaudits 
would  he  not  receive  from  his  comrades  of  the 
Riverbeds? 

Having  made  up  his  mind  he  was  not  slow 
to  act.  He  was  already  within  fifty  feet  of 
the  platform  on  which  the  gray-mustached  and 
stern-faced  veteran  of  the  civil  war  was  im- 
patiently marching  up  and  down.  An  empty 
sleeve  was  pinned  to  the  breast  of  the  old  sol- 
dier's coat;  but  he  stood  erect,  and  his  steps 
were  measured  with  soldierly  precision.  He 
had  stopped  for  a  moment  to  look,  with  keener 
scrutiny,  up  the  street  which  led  to  the  station. 
Aleck  stepped  up  on  the  platform  and  ap- 
proached him. 

"Good  evening,  Colonel  Butler!"  he  said. 

The  man  turned  and  faced  him. 


14  THE  FLAG 

"Good  evening,  sir !"  he  replied.  "You  have 
somewhat  the  advantage  of  me,  sir." 

"My  name  is  Aleck  Sands,"  explained  the 
boy.  "My  father  has  the  grist-mill  here. 
Miss  Grey,  she  is  our  teacher  at  the  graded 
school,  and  she  gave  me  a  paper — " 

Colonel  Butler  interrupted  him. 

"A  pupil  at  the  graded  school  are  you,  sir? 
Do  you  chance  to  know  a  lad  there  by  the  name 
of  Penfield  Butler;  and  if  you  know  him  can 
you  give  me  any  information  concerning  his 
whereabouts  this  evening?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  know  him.  After  school  he 
started  for  Drake's  Hill  with  some  other  Hill 
boys  to  go  a  coasting." 

"Ah!  Pleasure  before  duty.  He  was  to 
have  met  me  here  prior  to  the  leaving  of  the 
train.  I  have  little  patience,  sir,  with  boys 
who  neglect  engagements  to  promote  their  own 
pleasures." 

He  had  such  an  air  of  severity  as  he  said  it, 
that  Aleck  was  not  sure  whether,  after  all,  he 
would  dare  to  reapproach  him  on  the  subject 
of  the  subscription.  But  he  plucked  up  cour- 
age and  started  in  anew. 


THE  FLAG  15 

"Our  teacher,  Miss  Grey,  gave  me  this  paper 
to  get  subscriptions  on  for  the  new  flag.  I'd 
be  awful  glad  if  you'd  give  something  toward 
it." 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  man  as  he  took  the 
paper  from  Aleck's  hand.  "A  flag  for  the 
school?  And  has  the  school  no  flag?" 

"No,  sir;  not  any." 

"The  directors  have  been  derelict  in  their 
duty,  sir.  They  should  have  provided  a  flag 
on  the  erection  of  the  building.  No  public 
school  should  be  without  an  American  flag. 
Let  me  see." 

He  unhooked  his  eyeglasses  from  the  breast 
of  his  waist-coat  and  put  them  on,  shook  out 
the  paper  dexterously  with  his  one  hand,  and 
began  to  read  it  aloud. 

"We,  the  undersigned,  hereby  agree  to  pay 
the  sums  set  opposite  our  respective  names,  for 
the  purpose  of  purchasing  an  American  flag 
for  the  Chestnut  Hill  public  school.  All  sub- 
scriptions to  be  payable  to  a  collector  hereafter 
to  be  appointed." 

Colonel  Butler  removed  his  glasses  from  his 
nose  and  stood  for  a  moment  in  contemplation. 


16  THE  FLAG 

"I  approve  of  the  project,"  he  said  at  last. 
"Our  youth  should  be  made  familiar  with  the 
sight  of  the  flag.  They  should  be  taught  to 
reverence  it.  They  should  learn  of  the  gallant 
deeds  of  those  who  have  fought  for  it  through 
many  great  wars.  I  shall  be  glad  to  affix  my 
name,  sir,  to  the  document,  and  to  make  a 
modest  contribution.  How  large  a  fund  is  it 
proposed  to  raise?" 

Aleck  stammered  a  little  as  he  replied.  He 
had  not  expected  so  ready  a  compliance  with 
his  request.  And  it  was  beginning  to  dawn 
on  him  that  it  might  be  good  policy,  as  well 
as  a  matter  of  common  fairness,  to  tell  the  col- 
onel frankly  that  Pen  also  had  been  authorized 
to  solicit  subscriptions.  There  might  indeed 
be  such  a  thing  as  revoking  a  subscription  made 
under  a  misleading  representation,  or  a  sup- 
pression of  facts.  And  if  that  should  hap- 
pen— 

"Why,"  said  Aleck,  "why — Miss  Grey  said 
she  thought  we  ought  to  get  twenty-five  dol- 
lars. We've  got  to  get  a  pole  too,  you  know." 

"Certainly  you  must  have  a  staff,  and  a  good 
one.  Twenty-five  dollars  is  not  enough 


THE  FLAG  17 

money,  young  man.  You  should  have  forty 
dollars  at  least.  Fifty  would  be  better.  I'll 
give  half  of  that  amount  myself.  There 
should  be  no  skimping,  no  false  economy,  in  a 
matter  of  such  prime  importance.  I  shall  see 
Miss  Grey  about  it  personally  when  I  return 
from  New  York.  Kindly  accompany  me  to 
the  station-agent's  office  where  I  can  procure 
pen  and  ink." 

Aleck  knew  that  the  revelation  could  be  no 
longer  delayed. 

"But,"  he  stammered,  "but,  Colonel  Butler, 
you  know  Pen's  got  one  too." 

The  colonel  turned  back  again. 

"Got  what?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  one  of  these,  now,  subscription 
papers." 

"Has  he?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Colonel  Butler  stood  for  a  moment,  appar- 
ently in  deep  thought.  Then  he  looked  out 
again  from  under  his  bushy  eye-brows,  search- 
ingly,  up  the  street.  He  took  his  watch  from 
his  pocket  and  glanced  at  it.  After  that  he 
spoke. 


18  THE  FLAG 

"Under  normal  conditions,  sir,  my  grandson 
would  have  preference  in  a  matter  of  this  kind, 
and  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  unselfishly  making 
the  suggestion.  But,  as  he  has  failed  to  per- 
form a  certain  duty  toward  me,  I  shall  con- 
sider myself  relieved,  for  the  time  being,  of  my 
duty  of  preference  toward  him.  Kindly 
accompany  me  to  the  station-master's  of- 
fice." 

With  Aleck  in  his  wake  he  strode  down  the 
platform  and  across  the  waiting-room,  among 
the  people  who  had  gathered  to  wait  for  or  de- 
part by  the  train,  and  spoke  to  the  ticket-agent 
at  the  window. 

"Will  you  kindly  permit  me,  sir,  to  use  your 
table  and  pen  and  ink  to  sign  a  document  of 
some  importance?" 

"Certainly!" 

The  man  at  the  window  opened  the  door  of 
the  agent's  room  and  bade  the  colonel  and 
Aleck  to  enter.  He  pushed  a  chair  up  to  the 
table  and  placed  ink  and  pens  within  reach. 

"Help  yourself,  Colonel  Butler,"  he  said. 
"We're  glad  to  accommodate  you." 

But  the  colonel  had  barely  seated  himself  be- 


THE  FLAG  19 

fore  a  new  thought  entered  his  mind.  He  pon- 
dered for  a  moment,  and  then  swung  around  in 
the  swivel-chair  and  faced  the  boy  who  stood 
waiting,  cap  in  hand. 

"Young  man,"  he  said,  "it  just  occurs  to  me 
that  I  can  serve  your  school  as  well,  and  please 
myself  better,  by  making  a  donation  of  the 
flag  instead  of  subscribing  to  the  fund.  Does 
the  idea  meet  with  your  approval?" 

The  proposition  came  so  unexpectedly,  and 
the  question  so  suddenly,  that  Aleck  hardly 
knew  how  to  respond. 

"Why,  yes,  sir,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  "I  sup- 
pose so.  You  mean  you'll  give  us  the  flag?" 

"Yes;  I'll  give  you  the  flag.  I  am  about 
starting  for  New  York.  I  will  purchase  one 
while  there.  And  in  the  spring  I  will  provide 
a  proper  staff  for  it,  in  order  that  it  may  be 
flung  to  the  breeze." 

By  this  time  Aleck  comprehended  the  col- 
onel's plan. 

"Why,"  he  exclaimed  enthusiastically, 
"that'll  be  great!  May  I  tell  Miss  Grey?"  * 

"You  may  be  the  sole  bearer  of  my  written 
offer  to  your  respected  teacher." 


20  THE  FLAG 

He  swung  around  to  the  table  and  picked  up 
a  pen. 

"Your  teacher's  given  name  is — ?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"Why,"  stammered  Aleck,  "it's — it's — why, 
her  name's  Miss  Helen  Grey." 

The  colonel  began  to  write  rapidly  on  the 
blank  page  of  the  subscription  paper. 

"To  Miss  Helen  Grey; 

"Principal  of  the  Public  School 

"Chestnut  Hill. 
"MY  DEAR  MADAM  : 

"I  am  informed  by  one  of  your  pupils,  Mas- 
ter- 
He  stopped  long  enough  to  ask  the  boy  for 
his  full  name,  and  then  continued  to  write — 

"Alexander  McMurtrie  Sands,  that  it  is  your 
patriotic  purpose  to  procure  an  American  flag 
for  use  in  your  school.  With  this  purpose  I 
am  in  hearty  accord.  It  will  therefore  give 
me  great  pleasure,  my  dear  madam,  to  procure 
for  you  at  once,  at  my  sole  expense,  and  present 
to  your  school,  an  appropriate  banner,  to  be 
followed  in  due  season  by  a  fitting  staff.  I 


THE  FLAG  21 

trust  that  my  purpose  and  desire  may  com- 
mend themselves  to  you.     I  wish  also  that  your 
pupil,  the  aforesaid  Master  Sands,  shall  have 
full  credit  for  having  so  successfully  called  this 
matter  to  my  attention ;  and  to  that  end  I  make 
him  sole  bearer  of  this  communication. 
"I  remain,  my  dear  madam, 
"Your  obedient  servant, 

"RICHARD  BUTLER." 
January  12th. 

Colonel  Butler  read  the  letter  over  slowly 
aloud,  folded  the  subscription  paper  on  which 
it  had  been  written,  and  handed  it  to  Aleck. 

"There,  young  man,"  he  said,  "are  your 
credentials,  and  my  offer." 

The  shrieking  whistle  had  already  announced 
the  approach  of  the  train,  and  the  easy  puffing 
of  the  locomotive  indicated  that  it  was  now 
standing  at  the  station.  The  colonel  rose  from 
his  chair  and  started  across  the  room,  followed 
by  Aleck. 

"You're  very  kind  to  do  that,"  said  the  boy. 
And  he  added:  "Have  you  a  grip  that  I  can 
carry  to  the  train  for  you?" 

"No,  thank  you!    A  certain  act — rash  per- 


22  THE  FLAG 

haps,  but  justifiable, — in  the  civil  war,  cost  me 
an  arm.  Since  then,  when  traveling,  I  have 
found  it  convenient  to  check  my  baggage." 

He  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd  on  the 
platform,  still  followed  by  Aleck,  and  mounted 
the  rear  steps  of  the  last  coach  on  the  train. 
The  engine  bell  was  ringing.  The  conductor 
cried,  "All  aboard!"  and  signalled  to  the  en- 
gineer, and  the  train  moved  slowly  out. 

On  the  rear  platform,  scanning  the  crowd 
at  the  station,  stood  Colonel  Butler,  tall,  sol- 
dierly, impressive.  He  saw  Aleck  and  waved 
his  hand  to  him.  And  at  that  moment,  cap- 
less,  breathless,  hopeless,  around  the  corner  of 
the  station  into  sight,  dashed  Pen  Butler. 


CHAPTER  II 

PEN  was  not  only  exhausted  by  his  race,  he 
was  disappointed  and  distressed  as  well. 

Whether  or  not  his  grandfather  had  seen 
him  as  the  train  moved  out  he  did  not  know. 
He  simply  knew  that  for  him  not  to  have  been 
there  on  time  was  little  less  than  tragical.  He 
dropped  down  limply  on  a  convenient  trunk 
to  regain*his  breath. 

After  a  minute  he  was  aware  that  some  one 
was  standing  near  by,  looking  at  him.  He 
glanced  up  and  saw  that  it  was  Aleck  Sands. 
He  was  nettled.  He  knew  of  no  reason  why 
Aleck  should  stand  there  staring  at  him. 

"Well,"  he  asked  impatiently,  "is  there  any- 
thing about  me  that's  particularly  astonish- 
ing?" 

"Not  particularly,"  replied  Aleck.  "You 
seem  to  be  winded,  that's  all." 

"You'd  be  winded  too,  if  you'd  run  all  the 
way  from  Drake's  Hill." 


24  THE  FLAG 

"Too  bad  you  missed  your  grandfather. 
He  was  looking  for  you." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"He  told  me  so.  He  wanted  to  know  if  I'd 
seen  you." 

"What  did  you  tell  him?" 

"I  told  him  you'd  gone  to  Drake's  Hill, 
coasting." 

Pen  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  What  right,  he 
asked  himself,  had  this  fellow  to  be  telling  tales 
about  him?  What  right  had  he  to  be  talking 
to  Colonel  Butler,  anyway?  However,  he  did 
not  choose  to  lower  his  dignity  further  by  in- 
quiry. He  turned  as  if  to  leave  the  station. 
But  Aleck,  who  had  been  turning  the  matter 
over  carefully  in  his  mind,  had  decided  that 
Pen  ought  to  know  about  the  proposed  gift 
of  the  flag.  He  ought  not  to  be  permitted,  un- 
wittingly, to  go  on  securing  subscriptions  to 
a  fund  which,  by  reason  of  Colonel  Butler's 
proposed  gift,  had  been  made  unnecessary. 
That  would  be  cruel  and  humiliating.  So,  as 
Pen  turned  away,  he  said  to  him : 

"I've  put  in  some  work  for  the  flag  this 
afternoon." 


THE  FLAG  25 

"I  s'pose  so,"  responded  Pen.  "But  it  does 
not  follow  that  by  getting  the  first  start  you'll 
come  out  best  in  the  end." 

"Maybe  not;  but  I'd  like  to  show  you  what 
I've  done," 

He  took  the  subscription  paper  from  his 
pocket  and  began  to  unfold  it. 

"Oh,"  replied  Pen,  "I  don't  care  what  you've 
done.  It's  none  of  my  business.  You  get 
your  subscriptions  and  I'll  get  mine." 

Aleck  looked  for  a  moment  steadily  at  his 
opponent.  Then  he  folded  up  his  paper  and 
put  it  back  into  his  pocket. 

"All  right!"  he  said.  "Only  don't  forget 
that  I  offered  to  show  it  to  you  to-day." 

But  Pen  was  both  resentful  and  scornful. 
He  did  not  propose  to  treat  his  rival's  offer 
seriously,  nor  to  give  him  the  satisfaction  of 
looking  at  his  paper. 

"You  can't  bluff  me  that  way,"  he  said. 
"And  besides,  I'm  not  interested  in  what 
you're  doing." 

And  he  walked  around  the  corner  of  the  sta- 
tion platform  and  out  into  the  street. 

When  Aleck  Sands  tramped  up  the  hill  to 


26  THE  FLAG 

school  on  the  following  morning  it  was  with  no 
great  sense  of  jubilation  over  his  success.  He 
had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  he  had  not  done 
exactly  the  fair  thing  in  soliciting  a  subscrip- 
tion from  Pen  Butler's  grandfather.  It  was, 
in  a  way,  trenching  on  Pen's  preserves.  But 
he  justified  himself  on  the  ground  that  he  had 
a  perfect  right  to  get  his  contributions  where 
he  chose.  His  agency  had  been  conditioned 
by  no  territorial  limits.  And  if,  by  his  dili- 
gence, he  had  outwitted  Pen,  surely  he  had 
nothing  to  regret.  So  far  as  his  failure  to  dis- 
close to  his  rival  the  fact  of  Colonel  Butler's 
gift  was  concerned,  that,  he  felt,  was  Pen's 
own  fault.  If,  by  his  offensive  conduct,  the 
other  boy  had  deprived  himself  of  his  means  of 
knowledge,  and  had  humiliated  himself  and 
made  himself  ridiculous  by  procuring  unneces- 
sary subscriptions,  certainly  he,  Aleck,  was  not 
to  blame.  Under  any  circumstances,  now 
that  he  had  gone  so  far  in  the  matter,  he  would 
not  yield  an  inch  nor  make  a  single  concession. 
On  that  course  he  was  fully  determined. 

On  the  walk,  as  he  approached  the  school- 
house  door,  Pen  was  standing,  with  a  group  of 


THE  FLAG  27 

Hill  boys.  They  were  discussing  the  accident 
that  had  occurred  on  Drake's  Hill  the  day  be- 
fore. They  paid  little  attention  to  Aleck  as 
he  passed  by  them,  but,  just  as  he  was  mount- 
ing the  steps,  Pen  called  out  to  him. 

"Oh,  Aleck!  You  wanted  to  show  me  your 
subscription  paper  last  night.  I'll  look  at  it 
now,  and  you  look  at  mine,  and  we'll  leave  it 
to  the  fellows  here  who's  got  the  most  names 
and  the  most  money  promised.  And  I  haven't 
got  my  grandfather  on  it  yet,  either." 

Aleck  turned  and  faced  him.  "Remember 
what  you  said  to  me  last  night?"  he  asked. 
"Well,  I'll  say  the  same  thing  to  you  this  morn- 
ing. I'm  not  interested  in  your  paper.  It's 
none  of  my  business.  You  get  your  subscrip- 
tions and  I'll  get  mine." 

And  he  mounted  the  steps  and  entered  the 
school-room. 

Miss  Grey  was  already  at  her  desk,  and  he 
went  straight  to  her. 

"I've  brought  back  my  subscription  blank, 
Miss  Grey,"  he  said,  and  he  handed  the  paper 
to  her. 

She  looked  up  in  surprise. 


28  THE  FLAG 

"You  haven't  completed  your  canvass,  have 
you?"  she  asked. 

"No.  If  you'll  read  the  paper  you'll  see  it 
wasn't  necessary." 

She  unfolded  the  paper  and  read  the  letter 
written  on  it.  Her  face  flushed;  but  whether 
with  astonishment  or  anxiety  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  say. 

"Did  Colonel  Butler  know,"  she  inquired, 
"when  he  wrote  this,  that  Pen  also  had  a  sub- 
scription paper?" 

"Yes.  I  met  him  at  the  station  last  night, 
when  he  was  starting  for  New  York,  and  I 
told  him  all  about  it." 

"Was  Pen  there?" 

"No;  he  didn't  get  there  till  after  the  train 
started." 

"Does  he  know  about  this  letter?" 

"Not  from  me.  I  offered  to  show  it  to  him 
but  he  wouldn't  look  at  it." 

"Aleck,  there's  something  strange  about 
this.  I  don't  quite  understand  it.  Is  Pen 
outside?" 

"Yes ;  he  was  when  I  came." 

"Call  him  in,  please;  and  return  with  him." 


THE  FLAG  29 

Aleck  went  to  the  door,  his  resolution  to 
stand  by  his  conduct  growing  stronger  every 
minute.  He  called  to  Pen. 

"Miss  Grey  wants  to  see  you,"  he  said. 

"What  for?"  inquired  Pen. 

"She'll  tell  you  when  you  come  in." 

Both  boys  returned  to  the  teacher. 

"Pen,"  she  inquired,  "have  you  obtained  any 
subscriptions  to  your  paper  for  the  flag  fund?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Grey,"  he  replied.  "I  think  I've 
done  pretty  well  considering  my  grandfather's 
not  home." 

He  handed  his  paper  to  her  with  a  show  of 
pardonable  pride;  but  she  merely  glanced  at 
the  long  list  of  names. 

"Did  you  know,"  she  asked,  "that  Colonel 
Butler  has  decided  to  give  the  flag  to  the 
school?" 

Pen  opened  his  eyes  in  astonishment. 

"No,"  he  said.     "Has  he?" 

"Read  this  letter,  please." 

She  handed  the  colonel's  letter  to  him  and 
he  began  to  read  it.  His  face  grew  red  and 
his  eyes  snapped.  He  had  been  outwitted. 
He  knew  in  a  moment  when,  where  and  how  it 


30  THE  FLAG 

had  been  done.     He  handed  the  paper  back  to 
Miss  Grey. 

"All  right!"  he  said.  "But  I  think  it  was  a 
mean,  underhanded,  contemptible  trick." 

Then  Aleck,  slow  to  wrath,  woke  up. 

"There  was.  nothing  mean  nor  underhanded 
about  it,"  he  retorted.  "I  had  a  perfect  right 
to  ask  Colonel  Butler  for  a  subscription.  And 
if  he  chose  to  give  the  whole  flag,  that  was  his 
lookout.  And,"  turning  to  Pen,  "if  you'd 
been  half  way  decent  last  night,  you'd  have 
known  all  about  this  thing  then,  and  maybe 
saved  yourself  some  trouble." 

Before  Pen  could  flash  back  a  reply,  Miss 
Grey  intervened. 

"That  will  do,  boys.  I'm  not  sure  who  is 
in  the  wrong  here,  if  any  one  is.  I  propose  to 
find  out  about  that,  later.  It's  an  unfortunate 
situation;  but,  in  justice  to  Colonel  Butler,  we 
must  accept  it."  She  handed  Pen's  paper 
back  to  him,  and  added:  "I  think  you  had 
better  take  this  back  to  your  subscribers,  and 
ask  them  to  cancel  their  subscriptions.  I  will 
consult  with  my  associates  at  noon,  and  we  will 
decide  upon  our  future  course.  In  the  mean- 


THE  FLAG  31 

time  I  charge  you  both,  strictly,  to  say  nothing 
about  this  matter  until  after  I  have  made  my 
announcement  at  the  afternoon  session.  You 
may  take  your  seats." 

The  school  bell  had  already  ceased  ringing, 
and  the  pupils  had  filed  in  and  had  taken  their 
proper  places.  So  Aleck  and  Pen  went  down 
the  aisle,  the  one  with  stubborn  resolution 
marking  his  countenance,  the  other  with  keen 
resentment  flashing  from  his  eyes. 

And  poor  Miss  Grey,  mild  and  peace-loving, 
but  now  troubled  and  despondent,  who  had 
thought  to  restore  harmony  among  her  pupils, 
foresaw,  instead,  only  a  continued  and  more 
bitter  rivalry. 

Notwithstanding  her  admonition,  rumors  of 
serious  trouble  between  Aleck  and  Pen  filtered 
through  the  school-room  during  the  morning 
session,  and  were  openly  discussed  at  the  noon 
recess.  But  both  boys  kept  silent. 

It  was  not  until  the  day's  work  had  been 
finally  disposed  of,  and  the  closing  hour  had 
almost  arrived,  that  Miss  Grey  made  her  an- 
nouncement. 

With  all  the  composure  at  her  command  she 


32  THE  FLAG 

called  the  attention  of  the  school  to  the  plan 
for  a  flag  fund. 

"Our  end  has  been  accomplished,"  she  added, 
"much  more  quickly  and  successfully  than  we 
had  dared  to  hope,  as  you  will  see  by  this  letter 
which  I  shall  read  to  you." 

When  she  had  finished  reading  the  letter 
there  was  a  burst  of  applause.  The  school  had 
not  discovered  the  currents  under  the  surface. 

She  continued: 

"This,  of  course,  will  do  away  with  the  nec- 
essity of  obtaining  subscriptions.  Honors  ap- 
pear to  be  nearly  even.  A  prominent  citizen 
of  Chestnut  Hill  has  given  us  the  flag — " 
(Loud  applause  from  the  Hilltops;)  "and  a 
pupil  from  Chestnut  Valley  has  the  distinction 
of  having  procured  the  gift."  (Cheers  for 
Aleck  Sands  from  the  Riverbeds.)  "Now  let 
rivalry  cease,  and  let  us  unite  in  a  fitting  ac- 
ceptance of  the  gift.  I  have  consulted  with 
my  associates,  and  we  have  appointed  a  com- 
mittee to  wait  upon  Colonel  Butler  and  to  co- 
operate with  him  in  fixing  a  day  for  the  pre- 
sentation of  the  flag  to  the  school.  We  will 
make  a  half-holiday  for  the  occasion,  and  will 


THE  FLAG  33 

prepare  an  order  of  exercises.  We  assume 
that  Colonel  Butler  will  make  a  speech  of  pres- 
entation, and  we  have  selected  Penfield  Butler 
as  the  most  appropriate  person  to  respond  on 
behalf  of  the  school.  Penfield  will  prepare 
himself  accordingly." 

By  making  this  appointment  Miss  Grey  had 
hoped  to  pour  oil  upon  the  troubled  waters, 
and  to  bring  about  at  least  a  semblance  of  har- 
mony among  the  warring  elements.  But,  as 
the  event  proved,  she  had  counted  without  her 
host.  For  she  had  no  sooner  finished  her  ad- 
dress than  Pen  was  on  his  feet.  His  face  was 
pale  and  there  was  a  strange  look  in  his  eyes, 
but  he  did  not  appear  to  be  unduly  ex- 
cited. 

"May  I  speak,  Miss  Grey?"  he  asked. 

"Certainly,"  she  replied. 

"Then  I  want  to  say  that  I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you  for  appointing  me,  but  I  decline 
the  appointment.  I'm  glad  the  school's  going 
to  have  a  flag,  and  I'm  glad  my  grandfather's 
going  to  give  it;  and  I  thank  you,  Miss  Grey, 
for  trying  to  please  me;  but  I  don't  propose 
to  be  made  the  tail  of  Aleck  Sands'  kite.  If  he 


34  THE  FLAG 

thinks  it's  an  honor  to  get  the  flag  the  way  he 
got  it,  let  him  have  the  honor  of  accepting 
it." 

Pen  sat  down.  There  was  no  applause. 
Even  his  own  followers  were  too  greatly 
amazed  for  the  moment  to  applaud  him.  And, 
before  they  got  their  wits  together,  Miss  Grey 
had  again  taken  the  reins  in  hand. 

"I  am  sure  we  all  regret,"  she  said,  "that 
Penfield  does  not  see  fit  to  accept  this  appoint- 
ment, and  we  should  regret  still  more  the  atti- 
tude of  mind  that  leads  him  to  decline  it. 
However,  in  accordance  with  his  suggestion,  I 
will  name  Alexander  Sands  as  the  person  who 
will  make  the  response  to  Colonel  Butler's 
presentation  speech.  That  is  all  to-day. 
When  school  is  dismissed  you  will  not  loiter 
about  the  school  grounds,  but  go  immediately 
to  your  homes." 

It  was  a  wise  precaution  on  Miss  Grey's  part 
to  direct  her  pupils  to  go  at  once  to  their  homes. 
There  is  no  telling  what  disorder  might  have 
taken  place  had  they  been  permitted  to  remain. 
The  group  of  Hilltops  that  surrounded  Pen 
as  he  marched  up  the  street  and  explained  the 


THE  FLAG  35 

situation  to  them,  was  loud  in  its  condemnation 
of  the  meanness  and  trickery  of  Aleck  Sands; 
and  the  party  of  Riverbeds  that  walked  down 
with  Aleck  was  jubilant  over  the  clever  way  in 
which  he  had  outwitted  his  opponent,  and 
had,  by  obtaining  honor  for  himself,  conferred 
honor  also  upon  them. 

Colonel  Butler  returned,  in  due  season,  from 
New  York. 

Pen  met  him  at  the  station  on  his  arrival. 
There  was  no  delay  on  this  occasion.  Indeed, 
the  boy  had  paced  up  and  down  the  platform 
for  at  least  fifteen  minutes  before  the  train 
drew  in.  During  the  ride  up  to  Bannerhall, 
behind  the  splendid  team  of  blacks  with  their 
jingling  bells,  nothing  was  said  about  the  gift 
of  the  flag.  It  was  not  until  dinner  had  been 
served  and  partly  eaten  that  the  subject  was 
mentioned,  and  the  colonel  himself  was  the  first 
one  to  mention  it. 

"By  the  way,  Penfield,"  he  said,  "I  have  or- 
dered, and  I  expect  to  receive  in  a  few  days,  an 
American  flag  which  I  shall  present  to  your 
public  school.  I  presume  you  have  heard 
something  concerning  it?" 


36  THE  FLAG 

"Yes,  grandfather.  Your  letter  was  read  to 
the  school  by  Miss  Grey  the  day  after  you  went 
to  New  York." 

"Did  she  seem  pleased  over  the  gift?" 

"Yes,  very  much  so,  I  think.  It  was  aw- 
fully nice  of  you  to  give  it." 

"A — was  any  arrangement  made  about  re- 
ceiving it?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Grey  appointed  a  committee  to 
see  you.  There's  to  be  a  half -holiday,  and  ex- 
ercises." 

"I  presume — a — Penfield,  that  I  will  be  ex- 
pected to  make  a  brief  address?" 

"Of  course.     Miss  Grey's  counting  on  it." 

"Now,  father,"  interrupted  Aunt  Millicent, 
"I  do  hope  it  will  be  a  really  brief  address. 
You're  so  long-winded.  That  speech  you 
made  when  the  school-house  was  dedicated  was 
twice  too  long.  Everybody  got  tired." 

His  daughter  Millicent  was  the  only  person 
on  earth  from  whom  Colonel  Butler  would 
accept  criticism  or  reproof.  And  from  her  he 
not  only  accepted  it,  but  not  infrequently  acted 
upon  it  in  accordance  with  her  wish.  He  had 
always  humored  her,  because  she  had  always 


THE  FLAG  37 

lived  with  him,  except  during  the  time  she  was 
away  at  boarding  school;  and  since  the  death 
of  his  wife,  a  dozen  years  before,  she  had  de- 
voted herself  to  his  comfort.  But  he  was  fond, 
nevertheless,  of  getting  into  a  mild  argument 
with  her,  and  being  vanquished,  as  he  expected 
to  be  now. 

"My  dear  daughter,"  he  said,  "I  invariably 
gauge  the  length  of  my  speech  by  the  import- 
ance of  the  occasion.  The  occasion  to  which 
you  refer  was  an  important  one,  as  will  be  the 
occasion  of  the  presentation  of  this  flag.  It 
will  be  necessary  for  me,  therefore,  to  address 
the  pupils  and  the  assembled  guests  at  suf- 
ficient length  to  impress  upon  them  the  desir- 
ability, you  may  say  the  necessity,  of  having  a 
patriotic  emblem,  such  as  is  the  American 
flag,  constantly  before  the  eyes  of  our 
youth." 

His  daughter  laughed  a  little.  She  was 
never  awed  by  his  stately  manner  of  speech. 

"All  the  same,"  she  replied;  "I  shall  get  a 
seat  in  the  front  row,  and  if  you  exceed  fifteen 
minutes — fifteen  minutes  to  a  minute,  mind 
you — I  shall  hold  up  a  warning  ringer ;  and  if 


38  THE  FLAG 

you  still  trespass,  I  shall  go  up  and  drag  you 
off  the  platform  by  your  coat  tails;  and  then 
you'd  look  pretty,  wouldn't  you?" 

Apparently  he  did  not  find  it  profitable  to 
prolong  the  argument  with  her  on  this  occasion, 
for  he  laughed  and  turned  again  to  Pen. 

"By  the  way,  Penfield,"  he  said,  ''I  missed 
you  at  the  train  the  day  I  left  home.  I  sup- 
pose something  of  major  importance  detained 
you?" 

Pen  blushed  a  little,  but  he  replied 
frankly : 

"I  was  awfully  sorry,  grandfather;  I  meant 
to  have  written  you  about  it.  I  didn't  exactly 
forget;  but  I  was  coasting  on  Drake's  Hill,  and 
there  was  an  accident,  and  I  was  very  much 
excited,  and  it  got  train-time  before  I  knew  it. 
Then  I  ran  as  fast  as  I  could,  but  it  wasn't  any 
use." 

"I  see.  I  trust  that  no  one  was  seriously  in- 
jured?" 

"No,  sir.  I  bruised  my  shin  a  little,  and 
Elmer  scraped  his  knee,  and  the  bobs  were 
wrecked;  that's  about  all." 

Colonel   Butler   adjusted   his   glasses   and 


THE  FLAG  39 

leaned  back  in  his  chair;  a  habit  he  had  when 
about  to  deliver  himself  of  an  opinion  which  he 
deemed  important. 

"Penfield,"  he  said,  "a  gentleman  should 
never  permit  anything  to  interfere  with  the 
keeping  of  his  engagements.  If  the  matter  in 
hand  is  of  sufficient  importance  to  call  for  an 
engagement,  it  is  of  sufficient  importance  to 
keep  the  engagement  so  made.  It  is  an  ele- 
mentary principle  of  good  conduct  that  a  gen- 
tleman should  always  keep  his  word.  Other- 
wise the  relations  of  men  with  each  other  would 
become  chaotic." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Pen. 

Colonel  Butler  removed  his  glasses  and 
again  applied  himself  to  the  disposal  of  his 
food  which  had  been  cut  into  convenient  por- 
tions by  his  devoted  daughter. 

But  his  mind  soon  recurred  to  the  subject  of 
the  flag. 

"A — Penfield,"  he  inquired,  "do  you  chance 
to  know  whether  any  person  has  been  chosen 
to  make  a  formal  response  to  my  speech  of 
presentation?" 

Pen  felt  that  the  conversation  was  approach- 


40  THE  FLAG 

ing  an  embarrassing  stage,  but  there  was  no 
hesitancy  in  his  manner  as  he  replied : 

"Yes,  sir.  The  boy  that  got  your  offer, 
Aleck  Sands,  will  make  the  response." 

"H'm!  I  was  hoping,  expecting  in  fact, 
that  you,  yourself,  would  be  chosen  to  per- 
form that  pleasing  duty.  Had  you  been,  we 
could  have  prepared  our  several  speeches  with 
a  view  to  their  proper  relation  to  each  other. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  your  teacher,  Miss 
Grey,  would  have  this  fact  in  mind.  Do  you 
happen  to  know  of  any  reason  why  she  should 
not  have  appointed  you?" 

For  the  first  time  in  the  course  of  the  con- 
versation Pen  hesitated  and  stammered. 

"Why,  I — she — she  did  appoint  me." 

"Haven't  you  just  told  me,  sir,  that — " 

"But,  grandfather,  I  declined," 

Aunt  Millicent  dropped  her  hands  into  her 
lap  in  astonishment. 

"Pen  Butler!"  she  exclaimed,  "why  haven't 
you  told  me  a  word  of  this  before?" 

"Because,  Aunt  Milly,  it  wasn't  a  very 
agreeable  incident,  and  I  didn't  want  to  bother 
you  telling  about  it." 


THE  FLAG  41 

Colonel  Butler  had,  in  the  meantime,  again 
put  on  his  glasses  in  order  that  he  might 
look  more  searchingly  at  his  grandson. 

"Permit  me  to  inquire,"  he  asked,  "why 
you  should  have  declined  so  distinct  an 
honor?" 

Then  Pen  blurted  out  his  whole  grievance. 

"Because  Aleck  Sands  didn't  do  the  fair 
thing.  He  got  you  to  give  the  flag  through 
him  instead  of  through  me,  by  a  mean  trick. 
He  gets  the  credit  of  getting  the  flag ;  now  let 
him  have  the  honor  of  accepting  it.  I  won't 
play  second  fiddle  to  such  a  fellow  as  he  is,  and 
that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

He  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table  and 
sat,  with  flaming  cheeks  and  defiant  eyes,  as  if 
ready  to  meet  all  comers. 

Aunt  Millicent,  more  astonished  than  ever, 
exclaimed: 

"Why,  Pen  Butler,  I'm  shocked!" 

But  the  colonel  did  not  seem  to  be  shocked. 
Back  of  his  glasses  there  was  a  gleam  of  satis- 
faction in  his  eyes  which  Pen  could  not  see. 
Here  was  the  old  Butler  pride  and  independ- 
ence manifesting  itself;  the  spirit  which  had 


42  THE  FLAG 

made  the  family  prosperous  and  prominent. 
He  was  not  ill-pleased.  Nevertheless  he 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  spoke  impres- 
sively : 

"Now  let  us  consider  the  situation.  You 
received  from  your  teacher  a  copy  of  the  same 
subscription  blank  which  was  handed  to  your 
fellow-pupil.  Had  you  met  your  engagement 
at  the  station,  and  called  the  matter  to  my  at- 
tention, you  would  doubtless  have  received  my 
subscription,  or  been  the  bearer  of  my  offer, 
in  preference  to  any  one  else.  In  your  ab- 
sence your  school-fellow  seized  a  legitimate  op- 
portunity to  present  his  case.  My  regret  at 
your  failure  to  appear,  and  my  appreciation  of 
his  alertness,  led  me  to  favor  him.  I  am  un- 
able to  see  why,  under  these  circumstances,  he 
should  be  charged  with  improper  conduct." 

"Well,"  responded  Pen,  hotly,  "he  might  at 
least  have  told  you  that  I  had  a  subscription 
blank  too." 

"He  did  so  inform  me.  And  his  fairness 
and  frankness  in  doing  so  was  an  inducing 
cause  of  my  favorable  consideration  of  his  re- 
quest." 


THE  FLAG  43 

Pen  felt  that  the  ground  was  being  cut  away 
from  under  his  feet,  but  he  still  had  one  griev- 
ance left. 

"Anyway,"  he  exclaimed,  "he  might  have 
told  me  about  your  giving  the  whole  flag,  in- 
stead of  letting  me  go  around  like  a  monkey, 
collecting  pennies  for  nothing." 

"Very  true,  Penfield,  he  should  have  told 
you.  Didn't  he  intimate  to  you  in  any  way 
what  I  had  done  ?  Didn't  he  offer  to  show  you 
his  subscription  blank  containing  my  let- 
ter?" 

"Why — why,  yes,  I  believe  he  did." 

'And  you  declined  to  look  at  it?" 

"Yes,  I  declined  to  look  at  it.  I  considered 
it  none  of  my  business.  But  he  might  have 
told  me  what  was  on  it." 

"My  dear  grandson;  this  is  a  case  in  which 
the  alertness  of  your  school- fellow,  added  to 
your  failure  to  keep  an  engagement  and  to 
grasp  a  situation,  has  led  to  your  discomfiture. 
Let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you  to  be  diligent,  vig- 
ilant and  forearmed.  Only  thus  are  great  bat- 
tles won." 

Again  the  colonel  placed  his  glasses  on  the 


44  THE  FLAG 

hook  on  the  breast  of  his  waistcoat,  and  re- 
sumed his  activity  in  connection  with  his  even- 
ing meal.  It  was  plain  that  he  considered  the 
discussion  at  an  end. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  on  an  afternoon  late  in  January  that 
the  flag  was  finally  presented  to  the  school.  It 
was  a  day  marked  with  fierce  winds  and  flurries 
of  snow,  like  a  day  in  March. 

But  the  inclement  weather  did  not  prevent 
people  from  coming  to  the  presentation  exer- 
cises. The  school  room  was  full;  even  the 
aisles  were  filled,  and  more  than  one  late-comer 
was  turned  away  because  there  was  no  more 
room. 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  the  Riverbeds 
were  to  have  the  lion's  share  of  the  honors  of 
the  occasion,  and  the  further  fact  that  resent- 
ment in  the  ranks  of  the  Hilltops  ran  strong 
and  deep,  and  doubly  so  since  the  outwitting 
of  their  leader,  no  attempt  was  made  to  block 
the  program,  or  to  interfere,  in  any  way,  with 
the  success  of  the  occasion. 

There  were,  indeed,  some  secret  whisperings 
in  a  little  group  of  which  Elmer  Cuddeback 


46  THE  FLAG 

was  the  center ;  but,  if  any  mischief  was  brew- 
ing, Pen  did  not  know  of  it. 

Moreover,  was  it  not  Pen's  grandfather  who 
had  given  the  flag,  and  who  was  to  be  the  chief 
guest  of  the  school,  and  was  it  not  up  to  the 
Hilltops  to  see  that  he  was  treated  with  be- 
coming courtesy?  At  any  rate  that  was  the 
"consensus  of  opinion"  among  them.  Colonel 
Butler  had  prepared  his  presentation  speech 
with  great  care.  Twice  he  had  read  it  aloud 
in  his  library  to  his  grandson  and  to  his  daugh- 
ter Millicent. 

His  grandson  had  only  favorable  comment 
to  make,  but  his  daughter  Millicent  criticised  it 
sharply.  She  said  that  it  was  twice  too  long, 
that  it  had  too  much  "spread  eagle"  in  it,  and 
that  it  would  be  away  over  the  heads  of  his 
audience  anyway.  So  the  colonel  modified  it 
somewhat ;  but,  unfortunately,  he  neither  made 
it  simpler  nor  appreciably  shorter. 

Aleck,  too,  under  the  supervision  of  his 
teacher,  had  prepared  a  fitting  and  patriotic 
response  which  he  had  committed  to  memory 
and  had  rehearsed  many  times.  Pupils  taking 
part  in  the  rest  of  the  program  had  been 


THE  FLAG  47 

carefully  and  patiently  drilled,  and  every  one 
looked  forward  to  an  occasion  which  would  be 
marked  as  a  red-letter  day  in  the  history  of  the 
Chestnut  Hill  school. 

The  exercises  opened  with  the  singing  of 
"The  Star  Spangled  Banner,"  by  the  school. 
There  was  a  brief  prayer  by  the  pastor  of  one 
of  the  village  churches.  Next  came  a  recita- 
tion, "Barbara  Frietchie,"  by  a  small  girl. 
Then  another  girl  read  a  brief  history  of  the 
American  flag.  She  was  followed  by  James 
Garfield  Morrissey,  the  crack  elocutionist  of 
the  school,  who  recited,  in  fine  form,  a  well- 
known  patriotic  poem,  written  to  commemor- 
ate the  heroism  of  American  sailors  who 
cheered  the  flag  as  they  went  down  with  the 
sinking  flag-ship  Trenton  in  a  hurricane  which 
swept  the  Samoan  coast  in  1889. 

THE  BANNER  OF  THE  SEA 

By  wind  and  wave  the  sailor  brave  has  fared 

To  shores  of  every  sea; 
But,  never  yet  have  seamen  met  or  dared 

Grim  death  for  victory, 
In  braver  mood  than  they  who  died 
On  drifting  decks  in  Apia's  tide 
\Vhile  cheering  every  sailor's  pride, 

The  Banner  of  the  Free. 


48  THE  FLAG 

Columbia's  men  were  they  who  then  went  down, 

Not  knights  nor  kings  of  old; 
But  brighter  far  their  laurels  are  than  crown 

Or  coronet  of  gold. 
Our  sailor  true,  of  any  crew, 
Would  give  the  last  long  breath  he  drew 
To  cheer  the  old  Red,  White  and  Blue, 
The  Banner  of  the  Bold. 

With  hearts  of  oak,  through  storm  and  smoke  and  flame, 

Columbia's  seamen  long 
Have  bravely  fought  and  nobly  wrought  that  shame 

Might  never  dull  their  song. 
They  sing  the  Country  of  the  Free, 
The  glory  of  the  rolling  sea, 
The  starry  flag  of  liberty, 

The  Banner  of  the  Strong. 

We  ask  but  this,  and  not  amiss  the  claim ; 

A  fleet  to  ride  the  wave, 
A  navy  great  to  crown  the  state  with  fame, 

Though  foes  or  tempests  rave. 
Then,  as  our  fathers  did  of  yore, 
We'll  sail  our  ships  to  every  shore, 
On  every  ocean  wind  will  soar 

The  Banner  of  the  Brave. 

Oh !  this  we  claim  that  never  shame  may  ride 

On  any  wave  with  thee, 
Thou  ship  of  state  whose  timbers  great  abide 

The  home  of  liberty. 
For,  so,  our  gallant  Yankee  tars, 
Of  daring  deeds  and  honored  scars, 
Will  make  the  Banner  of  the  Stars 

The  Banner  of  the  Sea. 


The  school  having  been  roused  to  a  proper 
pitch  of  enthusiasm  by  the  reading  of  these 
verses,  Colonel  Butler  rose  in  an  atmosphere  al- 
ready surcharged  with  patriotism  to  make  his 


THE  FLAG  49 

presentation  speech.  Hearty  applause  greeted 
the  colonel,  for,  notwithstanding  his  well- 
known  idiosyncrasies,  he  was  extremely  pop- 
ular in  Chestnut  Hill.  He  had  been  a  brave 
soldier,  an  exemplary  neighbor,  a  prominent 
and  public-spirited  citizen.  Why  should  he 
not  receive  a  generous  welcome?  He  gra- 
ciously bowed  his  acknowledgment,  and  when 
the  hand-clapping  ceased  he  began: 

"Honored  teachers,  diligent  pupils,  faithful 
directors,  patriotic  citizens,  and  friends.  This 
is  a  most  momentous  occasion.  We  are  met 
to-day  to  do  honor  to  the  flag  of  our  country, 
a  flag  for  which — and  I  say  it  with  pardonable 
pride — I,  myself,  have  fought  on  many  a 
bloody  and  well-known  field." 

There  was  a  round  of  applause. 

The  colonel's  face  flushed  with  pleasure,  his 
voice  rose  and  expanded,  and  in  many  a  well- 
rounded  phrase  and  burst  of  eloquence  he  ap- 
pealed to  the  latent  patriotism  of  his  hear- 
ers. 

At  the  end  of  fifteen  minutes  he  glanced  at 
his  watch  which  was  lying  on  a  table  at  his 
side,  and  then  looked  at  his  daughter  Millicent 


50  THE  FLAG 

who  was  occupying  a  chair  in  the  front  row  as 
she  had  said  she  would.  She  frowned  at  him 
forbiddingly.  But  he  was  as  yet  scarcely  half 
through  his  speech.  He  picked  up  his  manu- 
script from  the  table  and  glanced  at  it,  and 
then  looked  appealingly  at  her.  She  was  ob- 
durate. She  held  a  warning  forefinger  in  the 
air. 

"I  am  reminded,"  he  said,  "by  one  in  the 
audience  whose  judgment  I  am  bound  to  re- 
spect, that  the  time  allotted  to  me  in  this  pro- 
gram has  nearly  elapsed." 

"Fully  elapsed,"  whispered  his  daughter 
with  pursed  lips,  in  such  manner  that,  looking 
at  her,  he  could  not  fail  to  catch  the  words. 

"Therefore,"  continued  the  colonel,  with  a 
sigh,  "I  must  hasten  to  my  conclusion.  I  wish 
to  acknowledge  my  deep  indebtedness  to  your 
faithful  teacher,  Miss  Grey,  by  reason  of  whose 
patriotic  initiative  the  opportunity  was  pre- 
sented to  me  to  make  this  gift.  I  wish  also  to 
commend  the  vigilance  and  effort  of  the  young 
gentleman  who  brought  the  matter  to  my  im- 
mediate and  personal  attention,  and  who,  I  am 
informed,  will  fittingly  and  eloquently  respond 


THE  FLAG  51 

to  this  brief  and  somewhat  unsatisfactory  ad- 
dress, Master  Alexander  Sands." 

Back  somewhere  in  the  audience,  at  the 
sound  of  the  name,  there  wTas  an  audible  sniff 
which  was  immediately  drowned  by  loud  hand- 
clapping  on  the  part  of  the  Riverbeds.  But 
Colonel  Butler  was  not  yet  quite  through. 
Avoiding  any  ominous  look  which  might  have 
been  aimed  at  him  by  his  daughter,  he  hurried 
on: 

"And  now,  in  conclusion,  as  I  turn  this  flag 
over  into  your  custody,  let  me  charge  you  to 
guard  it  with  exceeding  care.  It  should  be 
treated  with  reverence  because  it  symbolizes 
our  common  country.  Whoever  regards  it 
with  indifference  has  no  patriotic  blood  in  his 
veins.  Whoever  lays  wanton  hands  on  it  is  a 
traitor  to  it.  And  whoever  insults  or  defames 
it  in  any  way,  deserves,  and  will  receive,  the 
open  scorn  and  lasting  contempt  of  all  his 
countrymen.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  have 
done."* 

The  colonel  resumed  his  seat  amid  a  roar  of 
applause,  and  when  it  had  subsided  Miss  Grey 
arose  to  introduce  the  respondent. 


52  THE  FLAG 

"This  beautiful  flag,"  she  said,  "will  now  be 
accepted,  on  behalf  of  the  school,  in  an  address 
by  one  of  our  pupils:  Master  Alexander 
Sands." 

Aleck  arose  and  made  his  way  to  the  plat- 
form. The  Riverbeds  applauded  him  vigor- 
ously, and  the  guests  mildly,  as  he  went.  He 
started  out  bravely  enough  on  his  speech. 

"Colonel  Butler,  teachers  and  guests:  It 
gives  me  pleasure,  on  behalf  of  the  Chestnut 
Hill  public  school,  to  accept  this  beautiful 
flag-" 

He  made  a  sweeping  gesture  toward  the 
right-hand  corner  of  the  platform,  as  he  had 
done  at  rehearsals,  only  to  discover  that  the 
flag  had,  at  the  last  moment,  been  shifted  to  the 
left-hand  corner,  and  he  had,  perforce,  to  turn 
and  repeat  his  gesture  in  that  direction. 
There  was  nothing  particularly  disconcerting 
about  this,  but  it  broke  the  continuity  of  his 
effort,  it  interfered  with  his  memory,  he  halted, 
colored,  and  cudgeled  his  brains  to  find  what 
came  next.  Back,  in  the  rear  of  the  room, 
where  the  Hilltops  were  gathered,  there  was 
an  audible  snicker;  but  Aleck  was  too  busy  to 


THE  FLAG  53 

hear  it,  and  Miss  Grey,  prepared  for  just  such 
an  emergency  as  this,  glanced  at  a  manuscript 
she  had  in  her  hand,  and  prompted  him: 

"So  graciously  given  to  us — " 

Aleck  caught  the  words  and  went  on: 
" — so  graciously  given  to  us  by  our  honored 
townsman  and  patriotic  citizen,  Colonel  Rich- 
ard Butler." 

Another  pause.  Again  Miss  Grey  came  to 
the  rescue. 

"No  words  of  mine — "  she  said. 

"No  words  of  mine,"  repeated  Aleck.' 

"Sure,  they're  no  words  of  yours,"  said 
some  one  in  a  stage-whisper,  far  down  in  the 
audience. 

Suspicion  pointed  to  Elmer  Cuddeback,  but 
he  stood  there  against  the  wall,  with  such  an 
innocent,  sober  look  on  his  round  face,  that 
people  thought  they  must  be  mistaken.  The 
words  had  not  failed  to  reach  to  the  platform, 
however,  and  Miss  Grey,  more  troubled  than 
before,  again  had  recourse  to  her  manuscript 
for  the  benefit  of  Aleck,  who  was  floundering 
more  deeply  than  ever  in  the  bogs  of  memory. 

" — can  properly  express — " 


54  THE  FLAG 

" — can  properly  express— 

Another  pause.  Again  the  voice  back  by 
the  wall: 

"Express  broke  down;  take  local." 

The  situation  was  growing  desperate.  Miss 
Grey  was  almost  at  her  wit's  end.  Then  a 
bright  idea  struck  her.  She  thrust  the  manu- 
script into  Aleck's  hand. 

"Oh,  Aleck,"  she  exclaimed,  "take  it  and 
read  it!" 

He  grasped  it  like  the  proverbial  drowning 
man,  turned  it  upside  down  and  right  side  up, 
but  failed  to  find  the  place  where  he  had  left 
off. 

Again  the  insistent,  high-pitched  whisper 
from  the  rear,  breaking  distinctly  into  the  em- 
barrassing silence: 

"Can't  read  it,  cause  teacher  wrote  it." 

This  was  the  last  straw.  Slow  to  wrath  as 
he  always  was,  Aleck  had  thus  far  kept  his 
temper.  But  this  charge  filled  him  with  sud- 
den anger  and  resentment.  He  turned  his 
eyes,  blazing  with  fury,  toward  the  boy  by  the 
rear  wall,  whom  he  knew  was  baiting  him,  and 
shouted : 


ALECK  TURNED  IT  UPSIDE  DOWN  AND  RIGHTSIDE  UP, 
BUT  FAILED  TO  FIND  THE  PLACE 


p.  54 


THE  FLAG  55 

"That's  a  lie,  Elmer  Cuddeback,  and  you 
know  it!" 

At  once  confusion  reigned.  People  stood 
up  and  looked  around  to  get  a  possible  glimpse 
of  the  object  of  Aleck's  denunciation.  Some 
one  cried:  "Put  him  out!" 

Two  or  three  members  of  the  Riverbeds 
started  threateningly  toward  Elmer,  and  his 
friends  struggled  to  get  closer  to  him.  An  ex- 
citable woman  in  the  audience  screamed.  Miss 
Grey  was  pounding  vigorously  with  her  gavel, 
but  to  no  effect.  Then  Colonel  Butler  himself 
took  matters  in  hand.  He  rose  to  his  feet, 
stretched  out  his  arm,  and  shouted: 

"Order!     Order!    Resume  your  seats!" 

People  sat  down  again.  The  belligerent 
boys  halted  in  their  tracks.  Everyone  felt  that 
the  colonel  must  be  obeyed.  He  waited,  in 
commanding  attitude,  until  order  had  been  re- 
stored, then  he  continued : 

"The  young  gentleman  who  undertook  to 
respond  to  my  address  was  stricken  with  what 
is  commonly  known  as  stage-fright.  That  is 
no  discredit  to  him.  It  is  a  malady  that  at- 
tacked so  great  a  man  and  so  brave  a  warrior  as 


56  THE  FLAG 

General  Grant.  I  may  add  that  I,  myself, 
have  suffered  from  it  on  occasion.  And  now 
that  order  has  been  restored  we  will  proceed 
with  the  regular  program,  and  Master  Sands 
will  finish  the  delivery  of  his  address." 

He  stepped  back  to  give  the  respondent  the 
floor;  but  Master  Sands  was  nowhere  in  sight. 
In  the  confusion  he  had  disappeared.  The 
colonel  looked  around  him  expectantly  for  a 
moment,  and  then  again  advanced  to  the  front 
of  the  platform. 

"In  the  absence  of  our  young  friend,"  he 
said,  "'whose  address,  I  am  sure,  would  have 
been  received  with  the  approbation  it  deserves, 
I,  myself,  will  occupy  a  portion  of  the  time 
thus  made  vacant,  in  still  further  expounding 
to  you — " 

But  at  this  moment,  notwithstanding  his  ef- 
fort to  avoid  it,  he  again  caught  his  daughter's 
warning  look,  and  saw  her  forefinger  held 
threateningly  in  the  air. 

"I  am  reminded,  however,"  he  continued, 
"by  one  in  the  audience  whose  judgment  I  am 
bound  to  respect,  that  it  is  not  appropriate  for 
me  to  make  both  the  speech  of  presentation  and 


THE  FLAG  57 

the  address  on  behalf  of  the  recipient.  I  will, 
therefore,  conclude  by  thanking  you  for  your 
attendance  and  your  attention,  and  by  again 
adjuring  you  to  honor,  protect  and  preserve 
this  beautiful  emblem  of  our  national  liber- 
ties." 

He  had  scarcely  taken  his  seat  amid  the  ap- 
plause that  his  words  always  evoked,  before 
Miss  Grey  was  on  her  feet  announcing  the 
closing  number  of  the  program,  the  song 
"America,"  by  the  entire  audience. 

Whether  it  was  due  to  the  excitement  of  the 
occasion,  or,  as  the  colonel  afterward  modestly 
suggested,  to  the  spirit  of  patriotism  aroused 
by  his  remarks,  it  is  a  fact  that  no  one  present 
had  ever  before  heard  the  old  song  sung  with 
more  vim  and  feeling. 

The  audience  was  dismissed. 

Colonel  Butler's  friends  came  forward  to 
congratulate  and  thank  him.  The  Hilltops, 
chuckling  gleefully,  with  Elmer  Cuddeback  in 
their  center,  marched  off  up-town.  The  Riv- 
erbeds, downcast  and  revengeful,  made  their 
way  down  the  hill.  But  Aleck  Sands  was  not 
with  them.  He  had  already  left  the  school- 


58  THE  FLAG 

building  and  had  gone  home.  He  was  angry 
and  bitterly  resentful.  He  felt  that  he  could 
have  faced  any  one,  at  any  time,  in  open  war- 
fare, but  to  be  humiliated  and  ridiculed  in  pub- 
lic, that  was  more  than  even  his  phlegmatic 
nature  could  stand.  He  could  not  forget  it. 
He  could  not  forgive  those  who  had  caused 
it.  Days,  weeks,  years  were  not  sufficient  to 
blot  entirely  from  his  heart  the  feeling  of 
revenge  that  entered  it  that  winter  after- 
noon. 

It  was  late  on  the  same  day  that  Colonel 
Butler  stood  with  his  back  to  the  blazing  wood- 
fire  in  the  library,  waiting  for  his  supper  to 
be  served,  and  looking  out  into  the  hall  on  the 
folds  of  the  handsome,  silk,  American  flag 
draped  against  the  wall.  There  had  always 
been  a  flag  in  the  hall.  Colonel  Butler's  father 
had  placed  one  there  when  he  built  the  house 
and  went  to  live  in  it.  And  when,  later  on, 
the  colonel  fell  heir  to  the  property,  and  rebuilt 
and  modernized  the  home,  he  replaced  the  old 
flag  of  bunting  with  the  present  one  of  silk. 
Indeed,  it  was  on  account  of  the  place  and 
prominence  given  to  the  flag  that  the  home- 


THE  FLAG  59 

stead  had  been  known  for  many  years  as  Ban- 
nerhall. 

Pen  sat  at  the  library  table  preparing  his 
lessons  for  the  following  day. 

"Well,  Penfield,"  said  the'colonel,  "a— what 
did  you  think  of  my  speech  to-day?" 

"I  thought  it  was  great,"  replied  Pen. 
"Pretty  near  as  good  as  the  one  you  delivered 
last  Memorial  Day." 

The  colonel  smiled  with  satisfaction.  "Yes," 
he  remarked,  "I,  myself,  thought  it  was  pretty 
good;  or  would  have  been  if  your  aunt  Milli- 
cent  had  permitted  me  to  complete  it.  It  was 
also  unfortunate  that  your  young  friend  was 
not  able  fully  to  carry  out  his  part  of  the  pro- 
gram." 

"You  mean  Aleck  Sands?" 

"I  believe  that  is  the  young  gentleman's 


name." 


"He's  not  my  friend,  grandfather." 
"Tut!     Tut!     You  should  not  harbor  re- 
sentment because  of  his  having  outwitted  you 
in  the  matter  of  procuring  the  flag.     Espe- 
cially in  view  of  his  discomfiture  of  to-day." 
"It  wasn't  my  fault  that  he  flunked." 


60  THE  FLAG 

"I  am  not  charging  you  with  that  responsi- 
bility, sir.  I  am  simply  appealing  to  your 
generosity.  By  the  way,  I  understand — I 
have  learned  this  afternoon,  that  there  exists 
what  may  be  termed  a  feud  between  the  boys 
of  Chestnut  Hill  and  those  of  Chestnut  Valley. 
Have  I  been  correctly  informed?" 

"Why,  yes;  I  guess — I  suppose  you  might 
call  it  that." 

"And  I  have  been  informed  also  that  you 
are  the  leader  of  what  are  facetiously  termed 
the  'Hilltops,'  and  that  our  young  friend,  Mas- 
ter Sands,  is  the  leader  of  what  are  termed, 
still  more  facetiously,  the  'Riverbeds.'  Is  this 
true?" 

Pen  closed  his  book  and  hesitated.  He  felt 
that  a  reproof  was  coming,  to  be  followed,  per- 
haps, by  strict  orders  concerning  his  own  neu- 
trality. 

"Well,"  he  stammered,  "I — I  guess  that's 
about  right.  Anyway  our  fellows  sort  o'  de- 
pend on  me  to  help  'em  hold  their  own." 

Pen  was  not  looking  at  his  grandfather.  If 
he  had  been  he  would  have  seen  a  twinkle  of 
satisfaction  in  the  old  gentleman's  eyes.  It 


THE  FLAG  61 

was  something  for  a  veteran  of  the  civil  war  to 
have  a  grandson  who  had  been  chosen  to  the 
leadership  of  his  fellows  for  the  purpose  of  en- 
gaging in  juvenile  hostilities.  So  there  was 
no  shadow  of  reproof  in  the  colonel's  voice  as 
he  asked  his  next  question. 

"And  what,  may  I  inquire,  is,  or  has  been, 
the  casus  belli?'3 

"The  what,  sir?" 

"The — a — cause  or  causes  which  have  pro- 
duced the  present  state  of  hostility." 

"Why,  I  don't  know — nothing  in  particular, 
I  guess — only  they're  all  the  time  doing  mean 
things,  and  boasting  they  can  lick  us  if  we  give 
'em  a  chance;  and  I — I'm  for  giving  'em  the 
chance." 

Reproof  or  no  reproof,  he  had  spoken  his 
mind.  He  had  risen  from  his  chair,  and  stood 
before  his  grandfather  with  determination 
written  in  every  line  of  his  flushed  face.  Col- 
onel Butler  looked  at  him  and  chuckled. 

"Very  good!"  he  said.  He  chuckled  again 
and  repeated:  "Very  good!" 

Pen  stared  at  him  in  astonishment.  He 
could  not  quite  understand  his  attitude. 


62  THE  FLAG 

"Now,  Penfield,"  continued  the  old  gentle- 
man, "mind  you,  I  do  not  approve  of  petty 
jealousies  and  quarrelings,  nor  of  causeless  as- 
saults. But,  when  any  person  is  assailed,  it  is 
his  peculiar  privilege,  sir,  to  hit  back.  And 
when  he  hits  he  should  hit  hard.  He  should 
use  both  strategy  and  force.  He  should  see 
to  it,  sir,  that  his  enemy  is  punished.  Have 
your  two  hostile  bodies  yet  met  in  open  con- 
flict on  the  field?" 

"Why,"  replied  Pen,  still  amazed  at  the 
course  things  were  taking,  "we've  had  one  or 
two  rather  lively  little  scraps.  But  I  suppose, 
after  what  happened  today,  they'll  want  to 
fight.  If  they  do  want  to,  we're  ready  for 
'em." 

The  colonel  had  left  his  place  in  front  of 
the  fire,  and  was  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"Very  good!"  he  exclaimed,  "very  good! 
Men  and  nations  should  always  be  prepared 
for  conflict.  To  that  end  young  men  should 
learn  the  art  of  fighting,  so  that  when  the  call 
to  arms  comes,  as  I  foresee  that  it  will  come, 
the  nation  will  be  ready." 


THE  FLAG  63 

He  stopped  in  his  walk  and  faced  his  grand- 
son. 

"Not  that  I  deprecate  the  arts  of  peace,  Pen- 
field.  By  no  means!  It  is  by  those  arts  that 
nations  have  grown  great.  But,  in  my  hum- 
ble judgment,  sir,  as  a  citizen  and  a  soldier, 
the  only  way  to  preserve  peace,  and  to  ensure 
greatness,  is  to  be  at  all  times  ready  for  war. 
We  must  instil  the  martial  spirit  into  our 
young  men,  we  must  rouse  their  fighting  blood, 
we  must  teach  them  the  art  of  war,  so  that  if 
the  flag  is  ever  insulted  or  assailed  they  will  be 
ready  to  protect  it  with  their  bodies  and  their 
blood.  Learn  to  fight;  to  fight  honorably, 
bravely,  skillfully,  and — to  fight — hard." 

"Father  Richard  Butler!" 

It  was  Aunt  Millicent  who  spoke.  She  had 
come  on  them  from  the  hall  unawares,  and  had 
overheard  the  final  words  of  the  colonel's  ad- 
juration. 

"Father  Richard  Butler,"  she  repeated, 
"what  heresy  is  this  you  are  teaching  to 
Pen?" 

He  made  a  brave  but  hopeless  effort  to  jus- 
tify his  course. 


&4  THE  FLAG 

"I  am  teaching  him,"  he  replied,  "the  duty 
that  devolves  upon  every  patriotic  citizen." 

"Patriotic  fiddlesticks!"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
have  no  patience  with  such  blood-thirsty  doc- 
trines. And,  Pen,  listen!  If  I  ever  hear  of 
your  fighting  with  anybody,  at  any  time,  you'll 
have  your  aunt  ^lillicent  to  deal  with,  I  prom- 
ise you  that.  Now  come  to  supper,  both  of 
you!" 

It  was  not  until  nearly  the  close  of  the  after- 
noon session  on  the  following  day  that  Miss 
Grey  referred  to  the  unfortunate  incident  of 
the  day  before.  She  expressed  her  keen  re- 
gret, and  her  sense  of  humiliation,  over  the  oc- 
currence that  had  marred  the  program,  and 
requested  Elmer  Cuddeback,  Aleck  Sands  and 
Penfield  Butler  to  remain  after  school  that  she 
might  confer  with  them  concerning  some 
proper  form  of  apology  to  Colonel  Butler. 
But  when  she  had  the  three  boys  alone  with 
her,  and  referred  to  the  shameful  discourtesy 
with  which  the  donor  of  the  flag  had  been 
treated,  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  her 
voice  trembled  to  the  point  of  breaking.  Xo 
one  could  have  helped  feeling  sorry  for  her; 


THE  FLAG  65 

especially  the  three  boys  who  were  most  con- 
cerned. 

'"I  don't  think,"  said  Pen,  consolingly,  "that 
grandfather  minded  it  very  much.  He  doesn't 
talk  as  if  he  did." 

''Let  us  hope."  she  replied,  "that  he  was  not 
too  greatly  shocked,  or  too  deeply  disgusted. 
Elmer,  your  conduct  was  wholly  inexcusable, 
and  I'm  going  to  punish  you.  But,  Pen,  you 
and  Aleck  are  the  leaders,  and  I  want  this  dis- 
graceful feud  between  you  up-town  and  down- 
town boys  to  stop.  I  want  you  both  to  prom- 
ise me  that  this  will  be  the  end  of  it." 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other  appeal- 
ingly,  but,  for  a  moment,  neither  boy  replied. 
Then  Aleck  spoke  up. 

"Our  fellows/"  he  said,  "feel  pretty  sore  over 
the  way  I  was  treated  yesterday:  and  I  don't 
believe  they'd  be  willing  to  give  up  till  they 
get  even  somehow." 

To  which  Pen  responded : 

"They're  welcome  to  try  to  get  even  if  they 
want  to.  We're  ready  for  'em." 

Miss  Grey  threw  up  her  hands  in  despair. 

"Oh,  boys!  boys!"  she  exclaimed.    **\Vhy 


66  THE  FLAG 

will  you  be  so  foolish  and  obstinate?  What 
kind  of  men  do  you  suppose  you'll  make  if  you 
spend  your  school-days  quarreling  and  fight- 
ing with  each  other?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Pen.  "My 
grandfather  thinks  it  isn't  such  a  bad  idea  for 
boys  to  try  their  mettle  on  each  other,  so  long 
as  they  fight  fair.  He  thinks  they'll  make 
better  soldiers  sometime.  And  he  says  the 
country  is  going  to  need  soldiers  after 
awhile." 

She  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"But  I  don't  want  my  boys  to  become  sol- 
diers," she  protested.  "I  don't  want  war.  I 
don't  believe  in  it.  I  hate  it." 

She  had  reason  to  hate  war,  for  her  own 
father  had  been  wounded  at  Chancellorsville, 
and  she  remembered  her  mother's  long  years 
of  privation  and  sorrow.  Again  her  lip  trem- 
bled and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  There  was 
an  awkward  pause;  for  each  boy  sympathized 
with  her  and  would  have  been  willing  to  help 
her  had  a  way  been  opened  that  would  not  in- 
volve too  much  of  sacrifice.  Elmer  Cudde- 
back,  even  in  the  face  of  his  forthcoming  pun- 


THE  FLAG  67 

ishment,  was  still  the  most  tenderhearted  of 
the  three,  and  he  struggled  to  her  relief. 

"Can't — can't  we  make  some  sort  o'  com- 
promise?" he  suggested. 

But  Pen,  too,  had  been  thinking,  and  an 
idea  had  occurred  to  him.  And  before  any 
reply  could  be  made  to  Elmer's  suggestion  he 
offered  his  own  solution  to  the  difficulty. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Miss  Grey,"  he 
said,  "and  what  I'll  get  our  fellows  to  do. 
We'll  have  one,  big  snow-ball  fight.  And  the 
side  that  gets  licked  '11  stay  licked  till  school's 
out  next  spring.  And  there  won't  be  an}7  more 
scrapping  all  winter.  We'll  do  that,  won't  we, 
Elmer?" 

"Sure  we  will,"  responded  Elmer  confi- 
dently. 

Aleck  did  not  reply.  Miss  Grey  thought 
deeply  for  a  full  minute.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
Pen's  proposition  pointed  to  the  best  way  out 
of  the  difficulty.  Indeed,  it  was  the  only  way 
along  which  there  now  seemed  to  be  any  light. 
She  turned  to  Aleck. 

"Well,"  she  asked,  "what  do  you  think  of 
it?" 


68  THE  FLAG 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  he  replied.  "I'd  like 
to  talk  with  some  of  our  fellows  about  it 
first." 

He  was  always  cautious,  conservative,  slow 
to  act  unless  the  emergency  called  for  action. 

"No,"  replied  Pen.  "I  won't  wait.  It's  a 
fair  offer,  and  you'll  take  it  now  or  let  it  alone." 

"Then,"  said  Aleck,  doggedly,  "I'll  take  it, 
and  you'll  be  sorry  you  ever  made  it." 

Lest  active  hostilities  should  break  out  at 
once,  Miss  Grey  interrupted : 

"Now,  boys,  I  don't  approve  of  it.  I  don't 
approve  of  it  at  all.  I  think  young  men  like 
you  should  be  in  better  business  than  pelting 
each  other,  even  with  snow-balls.  But,  as  it 
appears  to  be  the  only  way  out  of  the  difficulty, 
and  in  the  hope  that  it  will  put  an  end  to  this 
ridiculous  feud,  I'm  willing  that  you  should 
go  ahead  and  try  it.  Do  it  and  have  it  over 
with  as  soon  as  possible,  and  don't  let  me  know 
when  it's  going  to  happen,  or  anything  about 
it,  until  you're  all  through." 

It  was  with  deep  misgivings  concerning  the 
success  of  the  plan  that  she  dismissed  the  boys ; 
and  more  than  once  during  the  next  few  days 


THE  FLAG  69 

she  was  on  the  point  of  withdrawing  her  per- 
mission for  the  fight  to  take  place.  Many 
times  afterwards  she  regretted  keenly  that  she 
had  not  done  so. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHEN  Pen  told  his  grandfather  that  a 
snowball  fight  had  been  decided  upon  as  the 
method  of  settling  the  controversy  between 
the  Hilltops  and  the  Riverbeds,  and  that  Miss 
Grey  had  given  her  permission  to  that  effect, 
the  old  gentleman  chuckled  gleefully. 

"A  very  wise  young  woman,"  he  said;  "very 
wise  indeed.  When  will  the  sanguinary  con- 
flict take  place?" 

"Why,"  replied  Pen,  "the  first  day  the  snow 
melts  good." 

"I  see.  I  suppose  you  will  lead  the  forces 
of  Chestnut  Hill?" 

"I  expect  to;  yes,  sir." 

"And  our  young  friend,  Master  Sands,  will 
marshal  the  troops  of  the  Valley?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  suppose  so." 

"You  will  have  to  look  out  for  that  young 
man,  Penfield.  He  strikes  me  as  being  very 
much  of  a  strategist." 


THE  FLAG  71 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  him." 

"Don't  be  over-confident.  Over-confidence 
has  lost  many  a  battle." 

"Well,  we'll  lick  'em  anyway.  We've  got 
to." 

"That's  the  proper  spirit.  Determination, 
persistence,  bravery,  hard- fighting —  Hush! 
Here  comes  your  aunt  Millicent." 

Colonel  Butler  was  as  bold  as  a  lion  in  the 
presence  of  every  one  save  his  daughter. 
Against  her  determination  his  resolution 
melted  like  April  snow.  She  loved  him  de- 
votedly, she  cared  for  him  tenderly,  but  she 
ruled  him  with  a  rod  of  iron.  In  only  one  mat- 
ter did  his  stubborn  will  hold  out  effectually 
against  hers.  No  persuasion,  no  demand  on 
her  part,  could  induce  him  to  change  his  atti- 
tude towards  Pen's  mother.  He  chose  to  con- 
sider his  daughter-in-law  absolutely  and  per- 
manently outside  of  his  family,  and  outside  of 
his  consideration,  and  there  the  matter  had 
rested  for  a  decade,  and  was  likely  to  rest  so 
long  as  he  drew  breath. 

That  night,  after  Pen  had  retired  to  his 
room,  there  came  a  gentle  knock  at  his  open 


72  THE  FLAG 

door.  His  grandfather  stood  there,  holding 
in  his  hand  a  small  volume  of  Upton's  mili- 
tary tactics  which  he  had  used  in  the  Civil  War. 

"I  thought  this  book  might  be  of  some  ser- 
vice to  you,  Penfield,"  he  explained.  "It  will 
give  you  a  good  idea  of  the  proper  methods  to 
be  used  in  handling  large  or  small  bodies  of 
troops." 

"Thank  you,  grandfather,"  said  Pen,  taking 
the  book.  "I'll  study  it.  I'm  sure  it'll  help 
me." 

"Nevertheless,"  continued  the  colonel, 
"there  must  be  courage  and  persistency  as  well 
as  tactics,  if  battles  are  to  be  won.  You  un- 
derstand?" 

"Yes,  grandfather." 

The  old  man  turned  away,  but  turned  back 
again. 

"A —  Penfield,"  he  said,  "when  you  are  ab- 
sent from  your  room  will  you  kindly  have  the 
book  in  such  a  locality  that  your  Aunt  Milli- 
cent  will  not  readily  discover  it?" 

"Yes,  grandfather." 

The  winter  weather  at  Chestnut  Hill  was 
not  favorable  for  war.  The  mercury  lingered 


THE  FLAG  73 

in  the  neighborhood  of  zero  day  after  day. 
Snow  fell,  drifted,  settled;  but  did  not  melt. 
It  was  plain  that  ammunition  could  not  be 
made  of  such  material.  So  the  battle  was  de- 
layed. But  the  opposing  forces  nevertheless 
utilized  the  time.  There  were  secret  drills. 
There  were  open  discussions.  Plans  of  cam- 
paign were  regularly  adopted,  and  as  regu- 
larly discarded.  Yet  both  sides  were  con- 
stantly ready. 

A  strange  result  of  the  situation  was  that 
there  had  not  been  better  feeling  between  the 
factions  for  many  months.  Good-natured 
boasts  there  were,  indeed.  But  of  malice, 
meanness,  open  resentment,  there  was  nothing. 
Every  one  was  willing  to  waive  opportunities 
for  skirmishing,  in  anticipation  of  the  one  big 
battle. 

It  was  well  along  in  February  before  the 
weather  moderated.  Then,  one  night,  it  grew 
warm.  The  next  morning  gray  fog  lay  over 
all  the  snow-fields.  Rivulets  of  water  ran  in 
the  gutters,  and  little  pools  formed  in  low 
places  everywhere.  War  time  had  at  last 
come.  Evidently  nature  intended  this  to  be 


74  THE  FLAG 

the  battle  day.     It  was  Saturday  and  there 
was  no  session  of  the  school. 

The  commander  of  the  Hilltops  called  his 
forces  together  early,  and  a  plan  of  battle  was 
definitely  formed.  Messengers,  carrying  a 
flag  of  truce,  communicated  with  the  River- 
beds, and  it  was  agreed  that  the  fight  should 
take  place  that  afternoon  on  the  vacant  plot 
in  the  rear  of  the  school  building.  It  was 
thought  best  by  the  Hilltops,  however,  to  re- 
connoiter  in  force,  and  to  prepare  the  field  for 
the  conflict.  So,  sixteen  strong,  they  went 
forth  to  the  place  selected  for  the  fray.  They 
saw  nothing  of  the  enemy ;  the  lot  was  still  va- 
cant. They  began  immediately  to  throw  up 
breast-works.  They  rolled  huge  snowballs 
down  the  slightly  sloping  ground  to  the  spot 
selected  for  a  fort.  These  snowballs  were  so 
big  that,  by  the  time  they  reached  their  desti- 
nation, it  took  at  least  a  half  dozen  boys  to  put 
each  one  into  place.  They  squared  them  up, 
and  laid  them  carefully  in  a  curved  line  ten 
blocks  long  and  three  blocks  high,  with  the  re- 
quisite embrasures.  Then  they  prepared  their 
ammunition.  They  made  snowballs  by  the 


THE  FLAG  75 

score,  and  piled  them  in  convenient  heaps  in- 
side the  barricade.  By  the  time  this  work  was 
finished  it  was  noon.  Then,  leaving  a  suf- 
ficient force  to  guard  the  fortifications,  the  re- 
mainder of  the  troops  sallied  forth  to  luncheon, 
among  them  the  leader  of  the  Hilltops.  At 
the  luncheon  table  Pen  took  advantage  of  the 
temporary  absence  of  his  aunt  to  inform  his 
grandfather,  in  a  stage-whisper,  that  the  long 
anticipated  fight  was  scheduled  for  that  after- 
noon. 

"And,"  he  added,  "we've  got  the  biggest 
snow  fort  you  ever  saw,  and  dead  loads  of 
snowballs  inside." 

The  colonel  smiled  and  his  eyes  twinkled. 

"Good!"  he  whispered  back.  "Smite  them 
hip  and  thigh.  Hold  the  fort!  'Stand:  the 
ground's  your  own,  my  braves !' ' 

"We're  ready  for  anything." 

"Bravo!  Beware  of  the  enemy's  strategy, 
and  fight  hard.  Fight  as  if — ah!  your  Aunt 
Millicent's  coming." 

At  one  o'clock  the  first  division  returned  and 
relieved  the  garrison;  and  at  two  every  soldier 
was  back  and  in  his  place.  The  breast-works 


76  THE  FLAG 

were  strengthened,  more  ammunition  was 
made,  and  heaps  of  raw  material  for  making 
still  more  were  conveniently  placed.  But  the 
enemy  did  not  put  in  an  appearance.  A  half 
hour  went  by,  and  another  half  hour,  and  the 
head  of  the  first  hostile  soldier  was  yet  to  be 
seen  approaching  above  the  crest  of  the  hill. 
Crowds  of  small  boys,  non-combatants,  were 
lined  up  against  the  school-house,  awaiting, 
with  anxiety  and  awe,  the  coming  battle.  Out 
in  the  road  a  group  of  girls,  partisans  of  the 
Hilltops,  was  assembled  to  cheer  their  friends 
on  to  victoiy.  Men,  passing  by  on  foot  and 
with  teams,  stopped  to  inquire  concerning  the 
war-like  preparations,  and  some  of  them,  on 
whose  hands  it  may  be  that  time  was  hanging 
heavily,  stood  around  awaiting  the  outbreak 
of  hostilities. 

Still  the  enemy  was  nowhere  in  sight.  A 
squad,  under  command  of  Lieutenant  Cudde- 
back,  was  sent  out  to  the  road  to  reconnoiter. 
They  returned  and  reported  that  they  had  been 
to  the  brow  of  the  hill,  but  had  failed  to  dis- 
cover any  hostile  troops.  Was  it  possible  that 
the  Riverbeds  had  weakened,  backed  out,  de- 


THE  FLAG  77 

cided,  like  the  cowards  that  they  were,  not  to 
fight,  after  all?  It  was  in  the  midst  of  an  ani- 
mated discussion  over  this  possibility  that  the 
defenders  of  the  fort  were  startled  by  piercing 
yells  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  stone  fence 
that  bounded  the  schoolhouse  lot  in  the  rear. 
Looking  in  that  direction  they  were  thunder- 
struck to  see  the  enemy's  soldiers  pouring  over 
the  wall  and  advancing  vigorously  toward 
them.  With  rare  strategy  the  Riverbeds,  in- 
stead of  approaching  by  the  front,  had  come  up 
the  hill  on  the  back  road,  crept  along  under 
cover  of  barns  and  fences  until  the  school- 
house  lot  was  reached,  and  now,  with  terrific 
shouts,  were  crossing  the  stone-wall  to  hurl 
themselves  impetuously  on  the  foe. 

For  a  moment  consternation  reigned  within 
the  fort.  The  surprise  was  overwhelming. 
Pen  was  the  first  one,  as  he  should  have  been, 
to  recover  his  wits.  He  remembered  his 
grandfather's  warning  against  the  enemy's 
strategy. 

"It's  a  trick!"  he  shouted.  "Don't  let  'em 
scare  you!  Load  up  and  at  'em!" 

Every  boy  seized  his  complement  of  snow- 


78  THE  FLAG 

balls,  and,  led  by  their  captain,  the  Hilltops 
started  out,  on  double-quick,  to  meet  the 
enemy. 

The  next  moment  the  air  was  filled  with 
flying  missiles.  They  were  fired  at  close 
range,  and  few,  from  either  side,  failed  to 
find  their  mark. 

The  battle  was  swift  and  fierce.  An  on- 
slaught from  the  Riverbeds'  left,  drove  the 
right  wing  of  the  Hilltops  back  into  the  shadow 
of  the  fort.  But  the  center  held  its  ground 
and  fought  furiously.  Then  the  broken  right 
wing,  supplied  with  fresh  ammunition  from  the 
reserve  piles,  rallied,  forced  the  invaders  back, 
turned  their  flank,  and  fell  on  them  from  the 
rear.  The  Riverbeds,  with  ammunition  all  but 
exhausted,  were  hard  beset.  They  fought 
bravely  and  persistently  but  they  could  not 
stand  up  before  the  terrific  rain  of  missiles  that 
was  poured  in  on  them.  They  yielded,  they 
retreated,  but  they  went  with  their  faces  to  the 
foe.  There  was  only  one  avenue  of  escape, 
and  that  was  down  by  the  side  of  the  school- 
house  to  the  public  road.  It  was  inch  by  inch 
that  they  withdrew.  No  army  ever  beat  a 


THE  FLAG  79 

more  stubborn  or  masterly  retreat.  In  the 
face  of  certain  defeat,  at  scarcely  arm's  length 
from  their  shouting  and  exultant  foe,  they 
fought  like  heroes. 

Pen  Butler  was  in  the  thickest  and  hottest 
of  the  fray.  He  urged  his  troops  to  the  as- 
sault, and  was  not  afraid  to  lead  them.  The 
militant  blood  of  his  ancestors  burned  in  his 
veins,  and,  if  truth  must  be  told,  it  trickled  in 
little  streams  down  his  face  from  a  battered 
nose  and  a  cut  lip  received  at  a  close  quarter's 
struggle  with  the  enemy. 

The  small  boys  by  the  schoolhouse,  seeing 
the  line  of  battle  approaching  them,  beat  a  re- 
treat to  a  less  hazardous  position.  The  girls 
in  the  road  clung  to  each  other  and  looked  on, 
fascinated  and  awe-stricken  at  the  furious 
fight,  forgetting  to  wave  a  single  handkerchief, 
or  emit  a  single  cheer.  The  men  on  the  side- 
path  clapped  their  hands  and  yelled  encourage- 
ment to  one  or  other  of  the  contending  forces, 
in  accordance  with  their  sympathies. 

The  first  of  the  retreating  troops,  still  con- 
testing stubbornly  the  foe's  advance,  reached 
the  corner  of  the  schoolhouse  nearest  the  public 


80  THE  FLAG 

road.  By  some  chance  the  entrance  door  of 
the  building  was  ajar.  A  soldier's  quick  eye 
discovered  it.  Here  was  shelter,  protection,  a 
chance  to  recuperate  and  reform.  He  shouted 
the  good  news  to  his  comrades,  pushed  the  door 
open  and  entered.  By  twos  and  threes,  and 
then  in  larger  groups,  they  followed  him  until 
the  very  last  man  of  them  was  safe  inside,  and 
the  door  was  slammed  shut  and  locked  in  the 
faces  of  the  foe.  Under  the  impetus  of  the 
charge  the  victorious  troops  broke  against  the 
barrier,  but  it  held  firm.  That  it  did  so  hold 
was  one  of  the  providential  occurrences  of  the 
day.  So,  at  last,  the  Hilltops  were  foiled  and 
baffled.  Their  victory  was  not  complete. 
Pen  stood  on  the  top  step  at  the  entrance,  his 
face  smeared  with  blood,  and  angrily  declared 
his  determination,  by  one  means  or  another,  to 
hunt  the  enemy  out  from  their  place  of  shel- 
ter, and  drive  them  down  the  hill  into  their  own 
riverbed,  where  they  belonged.  But,  in  spite 
of  his  extravagant  declaration,  nothing  could 
be  done  without  a  breach  of  the  law.  Doors 
and  windows  must  not  be  broken.  Tempor- 
arily, at  least,  the  enemy  was  safe. 


THE  FLAG  81 

After  a  consultation  among  the  Hilltops  it 
was  decided  to  take  up  a  position  across  the 
road  from  the  schoolhouse,  and  await  the  emer- 
gence of  the  foe.  But  the  foe  appeared  to  be 
in  no  haste  to  emerge.  It  was  warm  inside. 
They  were  safe  from  attack.  They  could  take 
their  ease  and  wait.  And  they  did.  The  min- 
utes passed.  A  half  hour  went  by.  A  driz- 
zling rain  had  set  in,  and  the  young  soldiers  at 
the  roadside  were  getting  uncomfortably  wet. 
The  small  boys,  who  had  looked  on,  departed 
by  twos  and  threes.  The  girls,  after  cheering 
the  heroes  of  the  fight,  also  sought  shelter. 
The  men,  who  had  been  interested  spectators 
while  the  battle  was  on,  drifted  away.  It  isn't 
encouraging  to  stand  out  in  the  rain,  doing 
nothing  but  stamping  wet  feet,  and  wait  for  a 
beaten  foe  to  come  out.  Enthusiasm  for  a 
cause  is  apt  to  wane  when  one  has  to  stand, 
shivering,  in  rain-soaked  clothes,  and  wait  for 
something  to  occur.  And  enthusiasm  did 
wane.  A  majority  of  the  boys  wanted  to  call 
it  a  victory  and  go  home.  But  Pen  would  not 
listen  to  such  a  proposal. 

"They've  run  into  the  schoolhouse,"  he  said, 


82  THE  FLAG 

"like  whipped  dogs,  and  locked  the  door;  and 
now,  if  we  go  home,  they'll  come  out  and  boast 
that  we  were  afraid  to  meet  'em  again.  They'll 
say  that  we  slunk  away  before  the  fight  was 
half  over.  I  won't  let  'em  say  that.  I'll  stay 
here  all  night  but  what  I'll  give  'em  the  final 
drubbing." 

But  his  comrades  were  not  equally  deter- 
mined. The  war  spirit  seemed  to  have  died 
out  in  their  breasts,  and,  try  as  he  would,  Pen 
was  not  able  to  restore  it. 

Yet,  even  as  he  argued,  the  schoolhouse  door 
opened  and  the  besieged  army  marched  forth. 
They  marched  forth,  indeed,  but  this  time  they 
had  an  American  flag  at  the  head  of  their  col- 
umn. It  was  carried  by,  and  folded  and 
draped  around  the  body  of,  Alexander  Sands. 
It  was  the  flag  that  Colonel  Butler  had  given 
to  the  school.  Whose  idea  it  was  to  use  it  thus 
has  never  been  disclosed.  But  surely  no  more 
effective  means  could  have  been  adopted  to 
cover  an  orderly  retreat.  The  Hilltop  forces 
stared  at  the  spectacle  in  amazement  and  stood 
silent  in  their  tracks.  Pen  was  the  first  to  re- 
cover his  senses.  If  he  had  been  angry  when 


THE  FLAG  83 

the  enemy  came  upon  them  unawares  from  the 
stone-wall,  he  was  furious  now. 

"It's  another  trick!"  he  cried,  "a  mean,  con- 
temptible trick!  They  think  the  flag'll  save 
'em  but  it  won't!  Come  on!  We'll  show 
'em!" 

He  started  toward  the  advancing  column, 
firing  his  first  snowball  as  he  went;  a  snowball 
that  flattened  and  spattered  against  the  flag- 
covered  breast  of  Aleck  Sands.  But  his  sol- 
diers did  not  follow  him.  No  leader,  however 
magnetic,  could  have  induced  them  to  assault 
a  body  of  troops  marching  under  the  protect- 
ing folds  of  the  American  flag.  They  revered 
the  colors,  and  they  stood  fast  in  their  places. 
Pen  leaped  the  ditch,  and,  finding  himself 
alone,  stopped  to  look  back. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  cried.  "Are  you 
all  afraid?" 

"It's  the  flag,"  answered  Elmer  Cudde- 
back,  "and  I  won't  fight  anybody  that  carries 
it." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Jimmie  Morrissey. 

"Nor  I;"  "Nor  I,"  echoed  one  after  an- 
other. 


84  THE  FLAG 

Then,  indeed,  Pen's  temper  went  to  fever 
heat.  He  faced  his  own  troops  and  denounced 
them. 

"Traitors!"  he  yelled.  "Cowards!  every 
one  of  you!  To  be  scared  by  a  mere  piece  of 
bunting!  Babies!  Go  home  and  have  your 
mothers  put  you  to  bed!  I'll  fight  'em  single- 
handed!" 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  plunged 
toward  the  head  of  the  column,  which  had  al- 
ready reached  the  middle  of  the  public  road. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  touch  the  flag!"  cried 
Aleck. 

"And  don't  you  dare  to  tell  me  what  I  shall 
not  touch,"  retorted  Pen.  "Drop  it,  or  I'll 
tear  it  off  of  vou." 

tt 

But  Aleck  only  drew  the  folds  more  tightly 
about  him  and  braced  himself  for  the  onset. 
He  clutched  the  staff  with  one  hand;  and  the 
other  hand,  duly  clenched,  he  thrust  into  his 
adversary's  face.  For  a  moment  Pen  was 
staggered  by  the  blow,  then  he  gathered  him- 
self together  and  leaped  upon  his  opponent. 
The  fight  was  on:  fast  and  furious.  The  fol- 
lowers of  each  leader,  appalled  at  the  fierce- 


THE  FLAG  85 

ness  of  the  combat,  stood  as  though  frozen  in 
their  places.  The  flag,  clutched  by  both  fight- 
ers, was  in  danger  of  being  torn  from  end  to 
end.  Then  came  the  clinch.  Gripping,  writh- 
ing, twisting,  tangled  in  the  colors,  the  lithe 
young  bodies  wavered  to  their  fall.  And  when 
they  fell  the  flag  fell  with  them,  into  the  grime 
and  slush  of  the  road.  In  an  instant  Pen  was 
on  his  feet  again,  but  Aleck  did  not  rise.  He 
pulled  himself  slowly  to  his  elbow  and  looked 
around  him  as  though  half-dazed. 

That  Pen  was  the  victor  there  was  no  doubt. 
His  face  streaked  with  blood  and  distorted  with 
passion,  he  stood  there  and  glared  triumphantly 
on  friend  and  foe  alike.  That  he  was  standing 
on  the  flag  mattered  little  to  him  in  that  mo- 
ment. He  was  like  one  crazed.  Some  one 
shouted  to  him : 

"Get  off  the  flag!     You're  standing  on  it!" 

"What's  that  to  you?"  he  yelled  back.  "I'll 
stand  where  I  like!" 

"It's  the  flag  of  your  country.  Get  off  of 
it!" 

"What  do  I  care  for  my  country  or  for  you. 
I've  won  this  fight,  single-handed,  in  spite  of 


86  THE  FLAG 

any  flag,  or  any  country,  or  any  coward  here, 
and  I'll  stand  where  I  choose  1" 

He  stood  fast  in  his  place  and  glared  defi- 
antly about  him,  and  in  all  the  company  there 
was  not  one  who  dared  approach  him. 

But  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  Some  im- 
pulse moved  him  to  look  down.  Under  his 
heels  the  white  stars  on  their  blue  field  were 
being  ground  into  the  mire.  A  sudden  re- 
vulsion of  feeling  swept  over  him,  a  sense  of 
horror  at  his  own  conduct.  His  arms  fell  to 
his  sides.  His  face  paled  till  the  blood  splashes 
on  it  stood  out  startlingly  distinct.  He  moved 
slowly  and  carefully  backward  till  the  folds  of 
the  banner  were  no  longer  under  his  feet.  He 
cast  one  fleeting  glance  at  his  worsted  ad- 
versary who  was  still  half-lying,  half -sitting, 
with  the  flag  under  his  elbows,  then,  his  passion 
quenched,  shame  and  remorse  over  his  un- 
patriotic conduct  filling  his  heart,  without  an- 
other word  he  turned  his  back  on  his  compan- 
ions, thrust  his  bleeding  hands  into  his  pockets, 
and  started  up  the  road,  toward  home ;  his  one 
thought  being  to  leave  as  quickly  and  quietly 
as  possible  the  scene  of  his  disgrace.  No  one 


THE  FLAG  87 

followed  him,  no  one  called  after  him ;  he  went 
alone.  He  was  hatless  and  ragged.  His 
rain-soaked  garments  clung  to  him  with  an  in- 
describable chill.  The  fire  of  his  anger  had 
burned  itself  out,  and  had  left  in  its  place  the 
ashes  of  despondency  and  despair.  Yet,  even 
in  that  hour  of  depression  and  self -accusation, 
he  did  not  dream  of  the  far-reaching  con- 
sequences of  this  one  unpremeditated  act  of 
inexcusable  folly  of  which  he  had  just  been 
guilty.  He  bent  down  and  gathered  some  wet 
snow  into  his  hands  and  bathed  his  face,  and 
sopped  it  half  dry  with  his  handkerchief,  al- 
ready soaked.  Then,  not  caring,  in  his  condi- 
tion, to  show  himself  on  the  main  street  of  the 
village,  he  crossed  over  to  the  lane  that  skirted 
the  out-lots,  and  went  thence  by  a  circuitous 
and  little  traveled  route,  to  Bannerhall. 

In  the  meantime,  back  in  the  road  by  the 
schoolhouse,  Aleck  Sands  had  picked  himself 
up,  still  a  little  dazed,  but  not  seriously  hurt, 
and  soldiers  who  had  recently  faced  each  other 
in  battle  came  with  unanimity  to  the  rescue  of 
the  flag.  Hilltops  and  Riverbeds  alike,  all 
differences  and  enmities  forgotten  in  this  new 


88  THE  FLAG 

crisis,  they  joined  in  gathering  up  the  wet  and 
muddy  folds,  and  in  bearing  them  to  the 
warmth  and  shelter  of  the  schoolhouse.  Here 
they  washed  out  the  stains,  and  stretched  the 
banner  out  to  dry,  and  at  dusk,  exhausted  and 
sobered  by  the  events  of  the  day,  with  serious 
faces  and  apprehensive  hearts,  they  went  to 
their  several  homes. 


CHAPTER  V 

WHEN  Pen  reached  home  on  that  afternoon 
after  the  battle  of  Chestnut  Hill,  he  found  that 
his  Aunt  Millicent  was  out,  and  that  his 
grandfather  had  not  yet  returned  from  Low- 
bridge,  the  county  seat,  fourteen  miles  away. 
He  had  therefore  an  opportunity,  unseen  and 
unquestioned,  to  change  his  wet  clothing  for 
dry,  and  to  bathe  and  anoint  and  otherwise  care 
for  his  cuts  and  bruises.  When  it  was  all  done 
he  went  down  to  the  library  and  lighted  the  gas, 
and  found  a  book  and  tried  to  read.  But  the 
words  he  read  were  meaningless.  Try  as  he 
would  he  could  not  keep  his  mind  on  the  printed 
page.  Nor  was  it  so  much  the  snowball  fight 
that  occupied  his  thoughts.  He  was  not  now 
exulting  at  any  victory  he  had  obtained  over 
his  foes.  He  was  not  even  dwelling  on  the 
strategy  and  trickery  displayed  by  Aleck 
Sands  and  his  followers  in  seeking  protection 
under  the  folds  of  the  flag;  strategy  and  trick- 


90  THE  FLAG 

ery  which  had  led  so  swiftly  and  sharply  to  his 
own  undoing.  It  was  his  conduct  in  that  last, 
fierce  moment  of  the  fight  that  was  blazoned 
constantly  before  his  eyes  with  ever  increasing 
strength  of  accusation.  To  think  that  he, 
Penfield  Butler,  grandson  of  the  owner  of  Ban- 
nerhall,  had  permitted  himself,  in  a  moment  of 
passion,  no  matter  what  the  provocation,  to 
grind  his  country's  flag  into  the  slush  under  his 
heels ;  the  very  flag  given  by  his  grandfather  to 
the  school  of  which  he  was  himself  a  member. 
How  should  he  ever  square  himself  with  Col- 
onel Richard  Butler?  How  should  he  ever 
make  it  right  with  Miss  Grey?  How  should 
he  ever  satisfy  his  own  accusing  conscience? 
Excuses  for  his  conduct  were  plenty  enough 
indeed ;  his  excitement,  his  provocation,  his  free- 
dom from  malice ;  he  marshalled  them  in  orderly 
array;  but,  under  the  cold  logic  of  events,  one 
by  one  they  crumbled  and  fell  away.  More 
and  more  heavily,  more  and  more  depressingly 
the  enormity  of  his  offense  weighed  upon  him 
as  he  considered  it,  and  what  the  outcome  of  it 
all  would  be  he  did  not  even  dare  to  conjec- 
ture. 


THE  FLAG  91 

At  half  past  five  his  Aunt  Millicent  returned. 
She  looked  in  at  him  from  the  hall,  greeted  him 
pleasantly,  said  something  about  the  miserable 
weather,  and  then  went  on  about  her  house- 
hold duties. 

Dinner  had  been  waiting  for  fifteen  minutes 
before  Colonel  Butler  reached  home,  and,  in 
the  mild  excitement  attendant  upon  his  return, 
Pen's  injuries  escaped  notice.  But,  at  the  din- 
ner-table, under  the  brightness  of  the  hanging 
lamps,  he  could  no  longer  conceal  his  condi- 
tion. Aunt  Millicent  was  the  first  to  discover 
it. 

"Why,  Pen !"  she  exclaimed,  "what  on  earth 
has  happened  to  you?" 

And  Pen  answered,  frankly  enough: 

"I've  been  in  a  snowball  fight,  Aunt  Milly." 

"Well,  I  should  say  so!"  she  replied.  "Your 
face  is  a  perfect  sight.  Father,  just  look  at 
Pen's  face." 

Colonel  Butler  adjusted  his  eye-glasses 
deliberately,  and  looked  as  he  was  bidden  to 
do. 

"Some  rather  severe  contusions,"  he  re- 
marked. "A  bit  painful,  Penfield?" 


92  THE  FLAG 

"Not  so  very,"  replied  Pen,  "I  washed  'em 
off  and  put  on  some  Pond's  extract,  and  some 
court-plaster,  and  I  guess  they'll  be  all 
right." 

The  colonel  was  still  looking  at  Pen's 
wounds,  and  smiling  as  he  looked. 

"The  nature  of  the  injuries,"  he  said,  "in- 
dicates that  the  righting  must  have  been  some- 
what strenuous.  But  honorable  scars,  won  on 
the  field  of  battle,  are  something  in  which  any 
man  may  take  pardonable — " 

"Father  Richard  Butler!"  exclaimed  Aunt 
Millicent.  "Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself! 
Pen,  let  this  be  the  last  snowball  fight  you  in- 
dulge in  while  you  live  in  this  house.  Do  you 
hear  me  ?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Millicent.  There  won't  be  any 
more;  not  any  more  at  all." 

"I  should  hope  not,"  she  replied;  "with  such 
a  looking  face  as  you've  got." 

Colonel  Butler  was  temporarily  subdued. 
Only  the  merry  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  and  the 
smile  that  hovered  about  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  still  attested  the  satisfaction  he  was  feel- 
ing in  his  grandson's  military  prowess.  He 


THE  FLAG  93 

could  not,  however,  restrain  his  curiosity  until 
the  end  of  the  meal,  and,  at  the  risk  of  evok- 
ing another  rebuke  from  his  daughter,  he  in- 
quired of  Pen : 

"A — Penfield,  may  I  ask  in  which  direction 
the  tide  of  battle  finally  turned?" 

"I  believe  we  licked  'em,  grandfather,"  re- 
plied Pen.  "We  drove  'em  into  the  school- 
house  anyway." 

"Not,  I  presume,  before  some  severe  pre- 
liminary fighting  had  taken  place?" 

"There  you  go  again,  father!"  exclaimed 
Aunt  Millicent.  "It's  nothing  but  'fighting, 
fighting,'  from  morning  to  night.  What  kind 
of  a  man  do  you  think  Pen  will  grow  up  to 
be,  with  such  training  as  this?" 

"A  very  useful,  brave  and  patriotic  citizen, 
I  hope,  my  dear." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  It  was  Aunt  Millicent's 
favorite  ejaculation.  But  the  colonel  did  not 
refer  to  the  battle  again  at  the  table.  It  was 
not  until  after  he  had  retired  to  the  library,  and 
had  taken  up  his  favorite  position,  his  back  to 
the  fire,  his  eyes  resting  on  the  silken  banner 
in  the  hall,  that  he  plied  Pen  with  further  ques- 


94  THE  FLAG 

tions.  His  daughter  not  being  in  the  room  he 
felt  that  he  might  safely  resume  the  subject 
of  the  fight. 

"I  would  like  a  full  report  of  the  battle,  Pen- 
field,"  he  said.  "It  appears  to  me  that  it  is 
likely  to  go  down  as  a  most  important  event  in 
the  history  of  the  school." 

Pen  shook  his  head  deprecatingly,  but  he  did 
not  at  once  reply.  Impatient  at  the  delay, 
which  he  ascribed  to  the  modesty  characteristic 
of  the  brave  and  successful  soldier,  the  colonel 
began  to  make  more  definite  inquiry. 

"In  what  manner  was  the  engagement 
opened,  Penfield?" 

And  Pen  replied: 

"Well,  you  know  we  built  a  snow  fort  in  the 
schoolhouse  lot ;  and  they  sneaked  up  the  back 
road,  and  cut  across  lots  where  we  couldn't  see 
'em,  and  jumped  on  us  suddenly  from  the 
stone- wall." 

"Strategy,  my  boy.  Military  strategy  de- 
serving of  a  good  cause.  And  how  did  you 
meet  the  attack?" 

"Why,  we  pulled  ourselves  together  and 
went  for 'em." 


THE  FLAG  95 

"Well?     Well?     What  happened?" 

The  colonel  was  getting  excited  and  impa- 
tient. 

"Well,  we  fought  'em  and  drove  'em  down 
to  the  front  of  the  school-house,  and  then  they 
opened  the  door  and  sneaked  in,  just  as  I  told 
you,  and  locked  us  out." 

"Ah!  more  strategy.  The  enemy  had 
brains.  But  you  should  have  laid  siege  and 
starved  him  out." 

"We  did  lay  siege,  grandfather." 

"And  did  you  starve  him  out?" 

"No,  they  came  out." 

"And  you  renewed  the  attack?" 

"Some  of  us  did." 

"Well,  go  on!  go  on!  What  happened? 
Don't  compel  me  to  drag  the  story  out  of  you 
piecemeal,  this  way." 

"Why,  they — they  played  us  another  mean 
trick." 

"What  was  the  nature  of  it?" 

"Well — you  know  that  flag  you  gave  the 
school?" 

"Yes." 

"They  carried  that  flag  ahead  of  'em,  Aleck 


96  THE  FLAG 

Sands  had  it  wrapped  around  him,  and  then — 
our  fellows  were  afraid  to  fight." 

"Strategy  again.  Military  genius,  indeed! 
But  it  strikes  me,  Penfield,  that  the  strategy 
was  a  bit  unworthy." 

"I,  thought  it  was  a  low-down  trick." 

"Well — a — let  us  say  that  it  was  not  the  act 
of  a  brave  and  generous  foe.  The  flag — the 
flag,  Penfield,  should  be  used  for  purposes  of 
inspiration  rather  than  protection.  However, 
the  enemy,  having  placed  himself  under  the 
auspices  and  protection  of  the  flag  which 
should,  in  any  event,  be  unassailable,  I  pre- 
sume he  marched  away  in  safety  and  security?" 

"Why,  no — not  exactly." 

"Penfield,  I  trust  that  no  one  had  the  hardi- 
hood to  assault  the  bearer  of  his  country's 
flag?" 

"Grandfather,  I  couldn't  help  it.  He  made 
me  mad." 

"Don't  tell  me,  sir,  that  you  so  far  forgot 
yourself  as  to  lead  an  attack  on  the  colors?" 

"No,  I  didn't.  I  pitched  into  him  alone.  I 
had  to  lick  him,  flag  or  no  flag." 

"Penfield,  I'm  astounded !    I  wouldn't  have 


THE  FLAG  97 

thought  it  of  you.     And  what  happened,  sir?" 

"Why,  we  clinched  and  went  down." 

"But,  the  flag?  the  flag?" 

"That  went  down  too." 

Colonel  Butler  left  his  place  at  the  fireside 
and  crossed  over  to  the  table  where  Pen  sat,  in 
order  that  he  might  look  directly  down  on  him. 

"Am  I  to  understand,"  he  said,  "that  the 
colors  of  my  country  have  been  wantonly 
trailed  in  the  mire  of  the  street?" 

Under  the  intensity  of  that  look,  and  the 
trembling  severity  of  that  voice,  Pen  wilted  and 
shrank  into  the  depths  of  his  cushioned  chair. 
He  could  only  gasp : 

"I'm  afraid  so,  grandfather." 

After  that,  for  a  full  minute,  there  was  si- 
lence in  the  room.  When  the  colonel  again 
spoke  his  voice  was  low  and  tremulous.  It  was 
evident  that  his  patriotic  nature  had  been 
deeply  stirred. 

"In  what  manner,"  he  asked,  "was  the  flag 
rescued  and  restored  to  its  proper  place?" 

And  Pen  answered  truthfully: 

"I  don't  know.     I  came  away." 

The  boy  was  still  sunk  deep  in  his  chair,  his 


98  THE  FLAG 

hands  were  desperately  clutching  the  arms  of 
it,  and  on  his  pale  face  the  wounds  and  bruises 
stood  out  startlingly  distinct. 

In  the  colonel's  breast  grief  and  indignation 
were  rapidly  giving  way  to  wrath. 

"And  so,"  he  added,  his  voice  rising  with 
every  word,  "you  added  insult  to  injury;  and 
having  forced  the  nation's  banner  to  the  earth, 
you  deliberately  turned  your  back  on  it  and 
came  away?" 

Pen  did  not  answer.     He  could  not. 

"I  say,"  repeated  the  colonel,  "you  deliber- 
ately turned  your  back  on  it,  and  came  away?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

Colonel  Butler  crossed  back  to  the  fire-place, 
and  then  he  strode  into  the  hall.  He  put  on  his 
hat  and  was  struggling  into  his  overcoat  when 
his  daughter  came  in  from  the  dining-room  and 
discovered  him. 

"Why,  father!"  she  exclaimed,  "where  are 
you  going?" 

"I  am  going,"  he  replied,  "to  perform  a  pa- 
triotic duty." 

"Oh,  don't  go  out  again  to-night,"  she 
pleaded.  "You've  had  a  hard  trip  to-day,  and 


THE  FLAG  99 

you're  tired.  Let  Pen  do  your  errand.  Pen, 
come  here !" 

The  boy  came  at  her  bidding.  The  colonel 
paused  to  consider. 

"On  second  thought,"  he  said,  finally,  "it 
may  be  better  that  I  should  not  go  in  person. 
Penfield,  you  will  go  at  once,  wherever  it  may 
be  necessary,  and  inquire  as  to  the  present  con- 
dition and  location  of  the  American  flag  be- 
longing to  the  Chestnut  Hill  school,  and  re- 
turn and  report  to  me." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Pen  put  on  his  hat  and  coat,  took  his  um- 
brella, and  went,  out  into  the  rain.  Six  blocks 
away  he  stopped  at  Elmer  Cuddeback's  door 
and  rang  the  bell.  Elmer  himself  came  in  an- 
swer to  the  ring. 

"Come  out  on  the  porch  a  minute,"  said  Pen. 
"I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Elmer  came  out  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him. 

"Tell  me,"  continued  Pen,  "what  became  of 
the  flag  this  afternoon,  after  I  left." 

"Oh,  we  picked  it  up  and  carried  it  into  the 
school-house.  Why?" 


100  THE  FLAG 

"My  grandfather  wants  to  know." 

"Well,  you  can  tell  him  it  isn't  hurt  much. 
It  got  tore  a  little  bit  in  one  corner ;  and  it  had 
some  dirt  on  it.  But  we  cleaned  her  up,  and 
dried  her  out,  and  put  her  back  in  her  place." 

"Thank  you  for  doing  it." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  But,  say,  Pen,  I'm 
sorry  for  you." 

"Why?" 

"On  account  of  what  happened." 

"Did  I  hurt  Aleck  much?" 

A  sudden  fear  of  worse  things  had  entered 
Pen's  mind. 

"No,  not  much.  He  limped  home  by  him- 
self." 

"Then,  what  is  it?" 

Pen  knew,  well  enough,  what  it  was ;  but  he 
could  not  do  otherwise  than  ask. 

"Why,  it's  because  of  what  you  did  to  the 
flag.  Everybody's  talking  about  it." 

"Let  'em  talk.     I  don't  care." 

But  he  did  care,  nevertheless.  He  went 
back  home  in  a  fever  of  apprehension  and  anx- 
iety. Suppose  his  grandfather  should  learn 
the  whole  truth,  as,  sooner  or  later  he  surely 


THE  FLAG  101 

would.  What  then?  Pen  decided  that  it 
would  be  better  to  tell  him  now. 

At  eight  o'clock,  when  he  returned  home,  he 
found  Colonel  Butler  still  seated  in  the  library, 
busy  with  a  book.  He  removed  his  cap  and 
coat  in  the  hall,  and  went  in.  The  colonel 
looked  up  inquiringly. 

"The  flag,"  reported  Pen,  "was  picked  up 
by  the  boys,  and  carried  back  to  the  school- 
house.  It  was  cleaned  and  dried,  and  put  in 
its  proper  place." 

"Thank  you,  sir;  that  is  all." 

The  colonel  turned  his  attention  again  to  his 
book. 

Pen  stood,  for  a  moment,  irresolute,  before 
proceeding  with  his  confession.  Then  he  be- 
gan: 

"Grandfather,  I'm  very  sorry  for  what  oc- 
curred, and  especially — " 

"I  do  not  care  to  hear  any  more  to-night. 
Further  apologies  may  be  deferred  to  a  more 
appropriate  time." 

Again  the  colonel  resumed  his  reading. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday;  but,  on  account 
of  the  unattractive  appearance  of  his  face,  Pen 


102  THE  FLAG 

was  excused  from  attending  either  church  or 
Sunday-school.  Monday  was  Washington's 
birthday,  and  a  holiday,  and  there  was  no 
school.  So  that  Pen  had  two  whole  days  in 
which  to  recover  from  his  wounds.  But  he 
did  not  so  easily  recover  from  his  depression. 
Nothing  more  had  been  said  by  Colonel  Butler 
about  the  battle,  and  Pen,  on  his  part,  did  not 
dare  again  to  broach  the  subject.  Yet  every 
hour  that  went  by  was  filled  with  apprehen- 
sion, and  punctuated  with  false  alarms.  It 
was  evident  that  the  colonel  had  not  yet  heard 
the  full  story,  and  it  was  just  as  evident  that 
the  portion  of  it  that  he  had  heard  had  dis- 
turbed him  almost  beyond  precedent.  He  was 
taciturn  in  speech,  and  severe  and  formal  in 
manner.  To  misuse  and  neglect  the  flag  of 
his  country  was,  indeed,  no  venial  offense  in 
his  eyes. 

Pen  had  not  been  out  all  day  Monday,  save 
to  go  on  one  or  two  unimportant  errands  for 
his  aunt.  Why  he  had  not  cared  to  go  out  was 
not  quite  clear,  even  to  himself.  Ordinarily  he 
would  have  sought  his  schoolfellows,  and 
would  have  exhibited  his  wounds,  these  silent 


THE  FLAG  103 

and  substantial  witnesses  of  his  personal 
prowess,  with  "pardonable  pride."  Xor  did 
his  schoolfellows  come  to  seek  him.  That  was 
strange  too.  Why  had  they  not  dropped  in, 
as  was  their  custom,  to  talk  over  the  battle? 
It  was  almost  dark  of  the  second  day,  and  not 
a  single  boy  had  been  to  see  him  or  inquire  for 
him.  It  was  more  than  strange;  it  was  omin- 
ous. 

After  the  evening  meal  Colonel  Butler  went 
out ;  a  somewhat  unusual  occurrence,  as,  in  his 
later  years,  he  had  become  increasingly  fond 
of  his  books  and  papers,  his  wood-fire  and  his 
easy  chair.  But,  on  this  particular  evening, 
there  was  to  be  a  meeting  of  a  certain  patriotic 
society  of  which  he  was  an  enthusiastic  mem- 
ber, and  he  felt  that  he  must  attend  it.  After 
he  had  gone  Pen  tried  to  study,  but  he  could 
not  keep  his  thought  on  his  work.  Then  he 
took  up  a  stirring  piece  of  fiction  and  began 
to  read:  but  the  most  exciting  scenes  depicted 
in  it  floated  hazily  across  his  mind.  His  Aunt 
Millicent  tried  to  engage  him  in  conversation, 
but  he  either  could  not  or  did  not  wish  to  talk. 
At  nine  o'clock  he  said  good-night  to  his  aunt, 


104  THE  FLAG 

and  retired  to  his  room.  At  half  past  nine 
Colonel  Butler  returned  home.  His  daughter 
went  into  the  hall  and  greeted  him  and  helped 
him  off  with  his  coat,  but  he  scarcely  spoke  to 
her.  When  he  came  in  under  the  brighter 
lights  of  the  library,  she  saw  that  his  face  was 
haggard,  his  jaws  set,  and  his  eyes  strangely 
bright. 

"What  is  it,  father?"  she  said.  "Something 
has  happened." 

He  did  not  reply  to  her  question,  but  he 
asked: 

"Has  Penfield  retired?" 

"He  went  to  his  room  a  good  half  hour  ago, 
father." 

"I  desire  to  see  him." 

"He  may  have  gone  to  bed." 

"I  desire  to  see  him  under  any  circumstances. 
You  will  please  communicate  my  wish  to 
him." 

"But,  father—" 

"Did  you  hear  me,  daughter?" 

"Father!  What  terrible  thing  has  hap- 
pened?" 

"A  thing  so  terrible  that  I  desire  confirma- 


THE  FLAG  105 

tion  of  it  from  Penfield's  lips  before  I  shall 
fully  believe  it.  You  will  please  call  him." 

She  could  not  disobey  that  command.  She 
went  tremblingly  up  the  stairs  and  returned  in 
a  minute  or  two  to  say : 

"Pen  had  not  yet  gone  to  bed,  father.  He 
will  be  down  as  soon  as  he  puts  on  his  coat  and 
shoes." 

"Very  well." 

Colonel  Butler  seated  himself  in  his  ac- 
customed chair  and  awaited  the  advent  of  his 
grandson. 

When  Pen  entered  the  library  a  few  minutes 
later,  his  Aunt  Millicent  was  still  in  the  room. 

"Millicent,"  said  the  colonel,  "will  you  be 
good  enough  to  retire  for  a  time?  I  wish  to 
speak  to  Penfield  alone." 

She  rose  and  started  toward  the  hall,  but 
turned  back  again. 

"Father,"  she  said,  "if  Pen  is  to  be  repri- 
manded for  anything  he  has  done,  I  wish  to 
know  about  it." 

"This  is  a  matter,"  replied  the  colonel, 
severely,  "that  can  be  adjusted  only  between 
Penfield  and  me." 


106  THE  FLAG 

She  saw  that  he  was  determined,  and  left  the 
room. 

When  the  rustle  attendant  upon  her  ascent 
of  the  staircase  had  died  completely  out,  the 
colonel  turned  toward  Pen.  He  spoke  quietly 
enough,  but  with  an  emotion  that  was  plainly 
suppressed. 

"Penfield,  you  may  stand  where  you  are  and 
answer  certain  questions  that  I  shall  ask  you." 

"Yes,  grandfather." 

"While  in  attendance  this  evening,  upon  a 
meeting  of  gentlemen  gathered  for  a  patriotic 
purpose,  I  was  told  that  you,  Penfield  Butler, 
had,  on  Saturday  last,  on  the  schoolhouse 
grounds,  trodden  deliberately  on  the  American 
flag  lying  in  the  slush  of  the  street.  Is  the 
story  true,  sir?" 

"Well,  grandfather,  it  was  this  way.  I 
was — " 

"I  desire,  sir,  a  categorical  reply.  Did  you, 
or  did  you  not,  stand  upon  the  American 
flag?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  believe  I  did." 

"I  am  also  credibly  informed  that  you  spoke 
disdainfully  of  this  particular  American  flag 


THE  FLAG  107 

as  a  mere  piece  of  bunting?  Did  you  use  those 
words?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  said,  grandfather." 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  could  have  spoken 
thus  disrespectfully  of  your  country's  flag?" 

"It  is  possible ;  yes,  sir." 

"I  am  further  informed  that,  on  the  same  oc- 
casion, in  language  of  which  I  have  no  credible 
report,  you  expressed  your  contempt  for  your 
country  herself.  Is  my  information  cor- 
rect?" 

"I  may  have  done  so." 

Pen  felt  himself  growing  weak  and  unsteady 
under  this  fire  of  questions,  and  he  moved  for- 
ward a  little  and  grasped  the  back  of  a  chair 
for  support.  The  colonel,  paying  no  heed  to 
the  boy's  pitiable  condition,  went  on  with  his 
examination. 

"Now,  then,  sir,"  he  said,  "if  you  have  any 
explanation  to  offer  you  may  give  it." 

"Well,  grandfather,  I  was  very  angry  at  the 
use  they'd  put  the  flag  to,  and  I — well,  I  didn't 
just  know  what  I  was  doing." 

Pen's  voice  had  died  away  almost  to  a  whis- 
per. 


108  THE  FLAG 

"And  that,"  said  the  colonel,  "is  your  only 
excuse?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Except  that  I  didn't  mean  it; 
not  any  of  it." 

"Of  course  you  didn't  mean  it.  If  you  had 
meant  it,  it  would  have  been  a  crime  instead  of 
a  gross  offense.  But  the  fact  remains  that,  in 
the  heat  of  passion,  without  forethought,  with- 
out regard  to  your  patriotic  ancestry,  you  have 
wantonly  defamed  your  country  and  heaped 
insults  on  her  flag." 

Pen  tried  to  speak,  but  he  could  not.  He 
clung  to  the  back  of  his  chair  and  stood  mute 
while  the  colonel  went  on : 

"My  paternal  grandfather,  sir,  fought  val- 
iantly in  the  army  of  General  Putnam  in  the 
Revolutionary  war,  and  my  maternal  grand- 
father was  an  aide  to  General  Washington. 
My  father  helped  to  storm  the  heights  of  Cha- 
pultepec  in  1847  under  that  invincible  com- 
mander, General  Worth.  I,  myself,  shared 
the  vicissitudes  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac, 
through  three  years  of  the  civil  war.  And  now 
it  has  come  to  this,  that  my  grandson  has  trod- 
den under  his  feet  the  flag  for  which  his  gal- 


THE  FLAG  109 

lant  ancestors  fought,  and  has  defamed  the 
country  for  which  they  shed  their  blood." 

The  colonel's  voice  had  risen  as  he  went  on, 
until  now,  vibrant  with  emotion,  it  echoed 
through  the  room.  He  rose  from  his  chair  and 
began  pacing  up  and  down  the  library  floor. 

Still  Pen  stood  mute.  Even  if  he  had  had 
the  voice  to  speak  there  was  nothing  more  that 
he  could  say.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  was 
hours  that  his  grandfather  paced  the  floor,  and 
it  was  a  relief  to  have  him  stop  and  speak 
again,  no  matter  what  he  should  say. 

"I  have  decided,"  said  the  colonel,  "that  you 
shall  apologize  for  your  offense.  It  is  the 
least  reparation  that  can  be  made.  Your 
apology  will  be  in  public,  at  your  school,  and 
will  be  directed  to  your  teacher,  to  your  coun- 
try, to  your  flag,  and  to  Master  Sands  who  was 
bearing  the  colors  at  the  time  of  the  as- 
sault." 

Before  his  teacher,  his  country  and  his  flag, 
Pen  would  have  been  willing  to  humble  himself 
into  the  dust.  But,  to  apologize  to  Aleck 
Sands! 

Colonel  Butler  did  not  wait  for  a  reply,  but 


110  THE  FLAG 

sat  down  at  his  desk  and  arranged  his  materials 
for  writing. 

"I  shall  communicate  my  purpose  to  Miss 
Grey,"  he  said,  "in  a  letter  which  you  will  take 
to  her  to-morrow." 

Then,  for  the  first  time  in  many  minutes, 
Pen  found  his  voice. 

"Grandfather,  I  shall  be  glad  to  apologize  to 
Miss  Grey,  and  to  my  country,  and  to  the  flag, 
but  is  it  necessary  for  me  to  apologize  to  Aleck 
Sands?" 

Colonel  Butler  swung  around  in  his  swivel- 
chair,  and  faced  the  boy  almost  savagely: 

"Do  you  presume,  sir,"  he  exclaimed,  "to 
dictate  the  conditions  of  your  pardon?  I  have 
fixed  the  terms.  They  shall  be  complied  with 
to  the  letter — to  the  letter,  sir.  And  if  you 
refuse  to  abide  by  them  you  will  be  required  to 
withdraw  to  the  home  of  your  maternal  grand- 
father, \vhere,  I  have  no  doubt,  your  conduct 
will  be  disregarded  if  not  approved.  But  I 
will  not  harbor,  under  the  roof  of  Bannerhall,  a 
person  who  has  been  guilty  of  such  disloyalty 
as  yours,  and  who  declines  to  apologize  for  his 
offense." 


THE  FLAG  111 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  ultimatum, 
the  colonel  again  turned  to  his  writing-desk 
and  proceeded  to  prepare  his  letter  to  Miss 
Grey.  Apparently  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
his  demand,  thus  definitely  made,  might  still 
be  refused. 

After  what  seemed  to  Pen  to  be  an  inter- 
minable time,  his  grandfather  ceased  writing, 
laid  aside  his  pen,  and  turned  toward  him  hold- 
ing a  written  sheet  from  which  he  read : 

"BANNERHALL,  CHESTNUT  HILL,  PA. 

February  22. 
"My  dear  Miss  Grey: 

"It  is  with  the  deepest  regret  that  I  have  to 
advise  you  that  my  grandson,  Penfield  Butler, 
on  Saturday  last,  by  his  own  confession,  dis- 
honored the  colors  belonging  to  your  school, 
and  made  certain  derogatory  remarks  concern- 
ing his  country  and  his  flag,  for  which  offenses 
he  desires  now  to  make  reparation.  Will  you 
therefore  kindly  permit  him,  at  the  first  pos- 
sible opportunity,  to  apologize  for  his  repre- 
hensible conduct,  publicly,  to  his  teacher,  to  his 
country  and  to  his  flag,  and  especially  to  Mas- 
ter Alexander  Sands,  the  bearer  of  the  flag, 
who,  though  not  without  fault  in  the  matter, 


112  THE  FLAG 

was,  nevertheless,  at  the  time,  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  colors. 

"Master  Butler  will  report  to  me  the  ful- 
fillment of  this  request.  With  personal  re- 
gards and  apologies,  I  remain, 

"Your  obed*  servant, 

"RICHAED  BUTLER." 

He  folded  the  letter,  placed  it  in  an  envel- 
ope, and  handed  it  to  Pen. 

"You  will  deliver  this  to  Miss  Grey,"  he  said, 
"on  your  arrival  at  school  to-morrow  morning. 
That  is  all  to-night.  You  may  retire." 

Pen  took  the  letter,  thanked  his  grandfa- 
ther, bade  him  good-night,  turned  and  went  out 
into  the  hall,  and  upstairs  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  is  little  wonder  that  Pen  passed  a  sleep- 
less night,  after  the  interview  with  his  grand- 
father. He  realized  now,  perhaps  better  than 
any  one  else,  the  seriousness  of  his  offense. 
Knowing,  so  well  as  he  did,  Colonel  Butler's 
reverence  for  all  things  patriotic,  he  did  not 
wonder  that  he  should  be  so  deeply  indignant. 
Pen,  himself,  felt  that  the  least  he  could  do, 
under  the  circumstances,  was  to  publicly  apolo- 
gize for  his  conduct,  bitter  and  humiliating  as 
it  would  be  to  make  such  an  apology.  And 
he  was  willing  to  apologize  to  any  one,  to  any- 
thing— save  Alexander  Sands.  To  this  point 
of  reparation  he  could  not  bring  himself.  This 
was  the  problem  with  which  he  struggled 
through  the  night  hours.  It  was  not  a  ques- 
tion, he  told  himself,  over  and  over  again,  of 
whether  he  should  leave  Bannerhall,  with  its 
ease  and  luxury  and  choice  traditions,  and  go 
to  live  on  the  little  farm  at  Cobb's  Corners. 


114  THE  FLAG 

It  was  a  question  of  whether  he  was  willing  to 
yield  his  self-respect  and  manhood  to  the  point 
of  humbling  himself  before  Alexander  Sands. 
It  was  not  until  he  heard  the  clock  in  the  hall 
strike  three  that  he  reached  his  decision. 

And  his  decision  was,  to  comply,  in  full,  with 
his  grandfather's  demand — and  remain  at  Ban- 
nerhall. 

At  the  breakfast  table  the  next  morning 
Colonel  Butler  was  still  reticent  and  taciturn. 
He  had  passed  an  uncomfortable  night  and 
was  in  no  mood  for  conversation.  He  did  not 
refer,  in  any  way,  to  the  matters  which  had 
been  discussed  the  evening  before;  and  when 
Pen,  with  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  started  for 
school,  the  situation  was  entirely  unchanged. 
But,  somehow,  in  the  freshness  of  the  morn- 
ing, under  the  cheerful  rays  of  an  unclouded 
sun,  the  task  that  had  been  set  for  Pen  did  not 
seem  to  him  to  be  quite  so  difficult  and  repul- 
sive as  it  had  seemed  the  night  before.  He 
even  deigned  to  whistle  as  he  went  down  the 
path  to  the  street.  But  he  noticed,  as  he 
passed  along  through  the  business  section  of 
the  town,  that  people  whom  he  knew  looked  at 


THE  FLAG  115 

him  curiously,  and  that  those  who  spoke  to 
him  did  so  with  scant  courtesy.  Across  the 
street,  from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  he  saw  one 
man  call  another  man's  attention  to  him,  and 
both  men  turned  their  heads,  for  a  moment,  to 
watch  him.  A  little  farther  along  he  caught 
sight  of  Elmer  Cuddeback,  his  bosom  compan- 
ion, a  half  block  ahead,  and  he  called  out  to 
him: 

"Hey!    Elmer,  wait  a  minute!" 

But  Elmer  did  not  wait.  He  looked  back  to 
see  who  had  called  to  him,  and  then  he  replied : 

"I  can't!  I  got  to  catch  up  with  Jimmie 
Morrissey." 

And  he  started  off  on  a  run.  This  was  the 
cut  direct.  There  was  no  mistaking  it.  It 
sent  a  new  fear  to  Pen's  heart.  It  served  to 
explain  why  his  schoolfellows  had  not  been  to 
see  him  and  sympathize  with  him.  He  had  not 
before  fully  considered  what  effect  his  conduct 
of  the  previous  Saturday  might  have  upon 
those  who  had  been  his  best  friends.  But 
Elmer's  action  was  suspiciously  expressive. 
It  was  more  than  that,  it  was  ominous  and  for- 
bidding. Pen  trudged  on  alone.  A  group  of 


116  THE  FLAG 

a  half  dozen  boys  who  had  heretofore  recog- 
nized him  as  their  leader,  turned  a  corner  into 
Main  street,  and  went  down  on  the  other  side. 
He  did  not  call  to  them,  nor  did  they  pay  any 
attention  to  him,  except  that,  once  or  twice, 
some  of  them  looked  back,  apparently  to  see 
whether  he  was  approaching  them.  But  his 
ears  burned.  He  knew  they  were  discussing 
his  fault. 

In  the  school-house  yard  another  group  of 
boys  was  gathered.  They  were  so  earnestly 
engaged  in  conversation  that  they  did  not  no- 
tice Pen's  approach  until  he  was  nearly  on 
them.  Then  one  of  them  gave  a  low  whistle 
and  instantly  the  talking  ceased. 

"Hello,  fellows!"  Pen  made  his  voice  and 
manner  as  natural  and  easy  as  determined  ef- 
fort could  make  them. 

Two  or  three  of  them  answered  "Hello!"  in 
an  indifferent  way;  otherwise  none  of  them 
spoke  to  him. 

If  the  battle  of  Chestnut  Hill  had  ended 
when  the  enemy  had  been  driven  into  the  school- 
house,  and  if  the  conquering  troops  had  then 
gone  home  proclaiming  their  victory,  these 


THE  FLAG  117 

same  boys  who  were  now  treating  him  with 
such  cold  indifference,  would  have  been  fling- 
ing their  arms  about  his  shoulders  this  morn- 
ing, and  proclaiming  him  to  the  world  as  a 
hero ;  and  Pen  knew  it.  With  flushed  face  and 
sinking  heart  he  turned  away  and  entered  the 
school-house. 

Aleck  Sands  was  already  there,  sitting  back 
in  a  corner,  surrounded  by  sympathizing 
friends.  He  still  bore  marks  of  the  fray. 

As  Pen  came  in  some  one  in  the  group  said : 

"Here  he  comes  now." 

Another  one  added: 

"Hasn't  he  got  the  nerve  though,  to  show 
himself  after  what  he  done  to  the  flag?" 

And  a  third  one,  not  to  be  outdone,  de- 
clared : 

"Aw!     He's  a  reg'lar  Benedic'  Arnold." 

Pen  heard  it  all,  as  thejr  had  intended  he 
should.  He  stopped  in  the  aisle  and  faced 
them.  The  grief  and  despair  that  he  had  felt 
outside  when  his  own  comrades  had  ignored 
him,  gave  place  now  to  a  sudden  blazing  up 
of  the  old  wrath.  He  did  not  raise  his  voice; 
but  every  word  he  spoke  was  alive  with  anger. 


118  THE  FLAG 

"You  cowardly  puppies!  You  talk  about 
the  flag!  The  only  flag  you're  fit  to  live  un- 
der is  the  black  flag,  with  skull  and  cross-bones 
on  it." 

Then  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  marched  up 
the  aisle  to  where  Miss  Grey  was  seated  at  her 
desk.  He  took  Colonel  Butler's  letter  from 
his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"My  grandfather,"  he  said,  "wishes  me  to 
give  you  this  letter." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  grieved  and 
troubled  face. 

"Oh,  Pen!"  she  exclaimed,  despairingly, 
"what  have  you  done,  and  why  did  you  do  it?" 

She  was  fond  of  the  boy.  He  was  her 
brightest  and  most  gentlemanly  pupil.  On 
only  one  or  two  other  occasions,  during  the 
years  of  her  authority,  had  she  found  it  neces- 
sary to  reprimand  him  for  giving  way  to  sud- 
den fits  of  passion  leading  to  infraction  of  her 
rules.  So  that  it  was  with  deep  and  real  sor- 
row that  she  deplored  his  recent  conduct  and 
his  present  position. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  her.  "I  guess 
my  temper  got  the  best  of  me,  that's  all." 


THE  FLAG  119 

"But,  Pen,  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I'm 
simply  at  my  wit's  end." 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  given  you  so  much 
trouble,  Miss  Grey,"  he  replied.  "But  when  it 
comes  to  punishing  me,  I  think  the  letter  will 
help  you  out." 

The  bell  had  stopped  ringing.  The  boys 
and  girls  had  crowded  in  and  were  already 
seated,  awaiting  the  opening  of  school.  Pen 
turned  away  from  his  teacher  and  started  down 
the  aisle  toward  his  seat,  facing  his  fellow- 
pupils  as  he  went. 

And  then  something  happened;  something 
unusual  and  terrible;  something  so  terrible 
that  Pen's  face  went  pale,  he  paused  a  mo- 
ment and  looked  ahead  of  him  as  though  in 
doubt  whether  his  ears  had  deceived  him,  and 
then  he  dropped  weakly  into  his  seat.  They 
had  hissed  him.  From  a  far  corner  of  the  room 
came  the  first  sibilant  sound,  followed  at  once 
by  a  chorus  of  hisses  that  struck  straight  to 
the  boy's  heart,  and  echoed  through  his  mind 
for  years. 

Miss  Grey  sprang  to  her  feet.  For  the  first 
time  in  all  the  years  she  had  taught  them  her 


120  THE  FLAG 

pupils  saw  her  fired  with  anger.  She  brought 
her  gavel  down  on  the  table  with  a  bang. 

"This  is  disgraceful!"  she  exclaimed.  "We 
are  in  a  school-room,  not  in  a  goose-pond,  nor  in 
a  den  of  snakes.  I  want  every  one  who  has 
hissed  to  remain  here  when  school  closes  at 
noon." 

But  it  was  not  until  after  the  opening  ex- 
ercises had  been  concluded,  and  the  younger 
children  had  gone  out  to  the  room  of  the  as- 
sistant teacher,  that  she  found  an  opportunity 
to  read  Colonel  Butler's  letter.  It  did  help 
her  out,  as  Pen  had  said  it  would.  She  re- 
solved to  act  immediately  upon  the  request  con- 
tained in  it,  before  calling  any  classes.  She 
rose  in  her  place. 

"I  have  an  unpleasant  duty  to  perform," 
she  said.  "I  hoped,  when  I  gave  you  boys  per- 
mission to  have  the  snow-ball  fight,  that  it 
would  result  in  permanent  peace  among  you. 
It  has,  apparently,  served  only  to  embitter  you 
more  deeply  against  each  other.  The  school 
colors  have  been  removed  from  the  building 
without  authority.  With  those  guilty  of  this 
offense  I  shall  deal  hereafter.  The  flag  has 


THE  FLAG  121 

been  abused  and  thrown  into  the  slush  of  the 
street.  As  to  this  I  shall  not  now  decide  whose 
was  the  greater  fault.  But  one,  at  least,  of 
those  concerned  in  such  treatment  of  our  colors 
has  realized  the  seriousness  of  his  misconduct, 
and  desires  to  apologize  for  it,  to  his  teacher, 
to  his  country,  to  his  flag,  and  to  the  one  who 
was  carrying  it  at  the  time  of  the  assault. 
Penfield,  you  may  come  to  the  platform." 

But  Pen  did  not  stir.  He  sat  there  as 
though  made  of  stone,  that  awful  hiss  still 
sounding  in  his  ears.  Miss  Grey's  voice  came 
to  him  as  from  some  great  distance.  He  did 
not  seem  to  realize  what  she  was  saying  to  him. 
She  saw  his  white  face,  and  the  vacant  look 
in  his  eyes,  and  she  pitied  him ;  but  she  had  her 
duty  to  perform. 

"Penfield,"  she  repeated,  "will  you  please 
come  to  the  platform?  We  are  waiting  for 
your  apology." 

This  time  Pen  heard  her  and  roused  himself. 
He  rose  slowly  to  his  feet ;  but  he  did  not  move 
from  his  place.  He  spoke  from  where  he 
stood. 

"Miss  Grey,"  he  said,  "after  what  has  oc- 


122  THE  FLAG 

curred  here  this  morning,  I  have  decided — not 
— to — apologize." 

He  bent  over,  picked  up  his  books  from  the 
desk  in  front  of  him,  stepped  out  into  the  aisle, 
walked  deliberately  down  between  rows  of 
astounded  schoolmates  to  the  vestibule,  put  on 
his  cap  and  coat,  and  went  out  into  the  street. 

No  one  called  him  back.  He  would  not 
have  gone  if  any  one  had.  He  turned  his  face 
toward  home.  Whether  or  not  people  looked 
at  him  curiously  as  he  passed,  he  neither  knew 
nor  cared.  He  had  been  hissed  in  public  by 
his  schoolfellows.  No  condemnation  could  be 
more  severe  than  this,  or  lead  to  deeper  humil- 
iation. Strong  men  have  quailed  under  this 
repulsive  and  terrible  form  of  public  disap- 
proval. It  is  little  wonder  that  a  mere  school- 
boy should  be  crushed  by  it.  That  he  could 
never  go  back  to  Miss  Grey's  school  was  per- 
fectly plain  to  him.  That,  having  refused  to 
apologize,  he  could  not  remain  at  Bannerhall, 
was  equally  certain.  One  path  only  remained 
open  to  him,  and  that  was  the  snow-filled, 
country  road  leading  to  his  grandfather 
Walker's  humble  abode  at  Cobb's  Corners. 


THE  FLAG  123 

When  he  reached  home  he  found  that  his 
grandfather  and  his  Aunt  Millicent  had  gone 
down  the  river  road  for  a  sleigh-ride.  He  did 
not  wait  to  consider  anything,  for  there  was 
really  nothing  to  consider.  He  went  up  to  his 
room,  packed  his  suit-case  with  some  clothing 
and  a  few  personal  belongings,  and  came  down 
stairs  and  left  his  baggage  in  the  hall  while  he 
went  into  the  library  and  wrote  a  letter  to  his 
grandfather.  When  it  was  finished  he  read  it 
over  to  himself,  aloud : 

"Dear  Grandfather: 

"After  what  happened  at  school  this  morn- 
ing it  was  impossible  for  me  to  apologize,  and 
keep  any  of  my  self-respect.  So  I  am  going 
to  Cobb's  Corners  to  live  with  my  mother  and 
Grandpa  Walker,  as  you  wished.  Good-by! 
"Your  affectionate  grandson, 

"PENFIELD  BUTLER." 
"P.  S.  Please  give  my  love  to  Aunt  Millicent." 

He  enclosed  the  letter  in  an  envelope,  ad- 
dressed it,  and  left  it  lying  on  the  library  table. 
Then  he  put  on  his  cap  and  coat,  took  his  suit- 
case, and  went  out  into  the  sunlight  of  the 
winter  morning.  At  the  entrance  gate  he 


124  THE  FLAG 

turned  and  looked  back  at  Bannerhall,  the 
wide  lawn,  the  noble  trees,  the  big  brick  house 
with  its  hospitable  porch,  the  window  of  his 
own  room,  facing  the  street.  Something  rose 
in  his  throat  and  choked  him  a  little,  but  his 
eyes  were  dry  as  he  turned  away.  He  knew 
the  road  to  Cobb's  Corners  very  well  indeed. 
He  had  made  frequent  visits  to  his  mother 
there  in  the  summer  time.  For,  notwithstand- 
ing his  forbidding  attitude,  Colonel  Butler 
recognized  the  instinct  that  drew  mother  and 
child  together,  and  never  sought  to  deny  it 
proper  expression.  But  it  was  hard  traveling 
on  the  road  to-day,  especially  with  a  burden  to 
carry,  and  Pen  was  glad  when  Henry  Cobb, 
a  neighbor  of  Grandpa  Walker,  came  along 
with  horse  and  sleigh  and  invited  him  to  ride. 

It  was  just  after  noon  when  he  reached  his 
grandfather's  house,  and  the  members  of  the 
family  were  at  dinner.  They  looked  up  in  as- 
tonishment when  he  entered. 

"Why,  Pen!"  exclaimed  his  mother,  "what- 
ever brings  you  here  to-day?" 

"I've  come  to  stay  with  you  awhile,  mother," 
he  replied,  "if  grandpa  '11  take  me  in." 


THE  FLAG  125 

"Of  course  grandpa  '11  take  you  in." 

And  then,  as  mothers  will,  especially  sur- 
prised mothers,  she  fell  on  his  neck  and  kissed 
him,  and  smiled  through  her  tears. 

"Well,  I  dunno,"  said  Grandpa  Walker, 
facetiously,  balancing  a  good-sized  morsel  of 
food  carefully  on  the  blade  of  his  knife,  "that 
depen's  on  wuther  ye're  willin'  to  take  pot-luck 
with  us  or  not." 

"I'm  willing  to  take  anything  with  you,"  re- 
plied Pen,  "if  you'll  give  me  a  home  till  I  can 
shift  for  myself." 

He  went  around  the  table  and  kissed  his 
grandmother  who  had,  for  years,  been  partially 
paralyzed,  shook  hands  with  his  Uncle  Joseph 
and  Aunt  Miranda,  and  greeted  their  little 
brood  of  offspring  cheerfully. 

"What's  happened  to  ye,  anyhow?"  asked 
Grandpa  Walker  when  the  greetings  were 
over  and  a  place  had  been  prepared  for  Pen  at 
the  table.  "Dick  Butler  kick  ye  out ;  did  he  ?" 

"Not  exactly,"  was  the  reply.  "But  he  told 
me  I  couldn't  stay  there  unless  I  did  a  certain 
thing,  and  I  didn't  do  it — I  couldn't  do  it — and 
so  I  came  away." 


126  THE  FLAG 

"Jes'  so.  That's  Dick  Butler  to  a  T.  Ef 
ye  don't  give  him  his  own  way  in  everything 
he  aint  no  furder  use  for  ye.  Well,  eat  your 
dinner  now,  an'  tell  us  about  it  later." 

So  Pen  ate  his  dinner.  He  was  hungry, 
and,  for  the  time  being  at  least,  the  echo  of  that 
awful  hiss  was  not  ringing  in  his  ears.  But 
they  would  not  let  him  finish  eating  until  he 
had  told  them,  in  detail,  the  cause  of  his  com- 
ing. He  made  the  story  as  brief  as  possible, 
neither  seeking  to  excuse  himself  nor  to  lay  the 
blame  on  others. 

"Well,"  was  Grandpa  Walker's  comment 
when  the  recital  was  finished,  "I  dunno  but 
what  ye  done  all  right  enough.  They  ain't  one 
o'  them  blame  little  scalawags  down  to  Chest- 
nut Valley,  but  what  deserves  a  good  thrashin' 
on  gen'al  principles.  They  yell  names  at  me 
every  time  I  go  down  to  mill,  an'  then  cut  an' 
run  like  blazes  'fore  I  can  git  at  'em  with  a 
hoss-whip.  I'm  glad  somebody's  bed  the  grace 
to  wallop  'em.  And  es  for  Dick  Butler;  he's 
too  allfired  pompous  an'  domineerin'  for  any- 
body to  live  with,  anyhow.  Lets  on  he  was  a 
great  soldier!  Humph!  I've  known  him — " 


THE  FLAG  127 

"Hush,  father!" 

It  was  Pen's  mother  who  spoke.  The  old 
man  turned  toward  her  abruptly. 

"You  ain't  got  no  call,"  he  said,  "to  stick  up 
for  Dick  Butler." 

"I  know,"  she  replied.  "But  he's  Pen's 
grandfather* and  it  isn't  nice  to  abuse  him  in 
Pen's  presence." 

"Well,  mebbe  that's  so." 

He  rose  from  the  table,  got  his  pipe  from  the 
mantel,  filled  it  and  lighted  it,  and  went  over 
and  deposited  his  somewhat  ponderous  body  in 
a  cushioned  chair  by  the  window.  Pen's 
mother  and  aunt  pushed  the  wheel-chair  in 
which  Grandma  Walker  sat,  to  one  side  of  the 
room,  and  began  to  clear  the  dishes  from  the 
table. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  between  his  puffs 
of  smoke,  "now  ye're  here,  what  ye  goin'  to  do 
here?" 

"Anything  you  have  for  me  to  do,  grandpa," 
replied  Pen. 

"I  don't  see's  I  can  send  ye  to  school." 

"I'd  rather  not  go  to  school.  I'd  rather 
work — do  chores,  anything." 


128  THE  FLAG 

"All  right!  I  guess  we  can  keep  ye  from 
rustin'.  They's  plenty  to  do,  and  I  ain't  so 
soople  as  I  was  at  sixty." 

He  looked  the  embodiment  of  physical  com- 
fort, with  his  round,  fresh  face,  and  the  fringe 
of  gray  whiskers  under  his  chin,  as  he  sat  at 
ease  in  his  big  chair  by  the  window,  puffing 
lazily  at  his  pipe. 

So  Pen  stayed.  There  was  no  doubt  but 
that  he  earned  his  keep.  He  did  chores.  He 
chopped  wood.  He  brought  water  from  the 
well.  He  fed  the  horse  and  the  cows,  the 
chickens  and  the  pigs.  He  drove  Old  Charlie 
in  the  performance  of  any  work  requiring  the 
assistance  of  a  horse.  He  was  busy  from 
morning  to  night.  He  slept  in  a  cold  room,  he 
was  up  before  daylight,  he  was  out  in  all  kinds 
of  weather,  he  did  all  kinds  of  tasks.  There 
were  sore  muscles  and  aching  bones,  indeed, 
before  he  had  hardened  himself  to  his  work ;  for 
physical  labor  was  new  to  him;  but  he  never 
shirked  nor  complained.  Moreover  he  was 
treated  kindly,  he  had  plenty  to  eat,  and  he 
shared  in  whatever  diversions  the  family  could 
afford.  Then,  too,  he  had  his  mother  to  com- 


THE  FLAG  129 

fort  him,  to  cheer  him,  to  sympathize  with  him, 
and  to  be,  ever  more  and  more,  his  confidante 
and  companion. 

And  Grandpa  Walker,  relieved  of  nearly 
all  laborious  activities  about  the  place,  much  to 
his  enjoyment,  spent  his  time  reading,  smoking 
and  dozing  through  the  days  of  late  winter  and 
early  spring,  and  discussing  politics  and  big 
business  in  the  country  store  at  the  cross-roads 
of  an  evening. 

One  afternoon,  about  the  middle  of  March, 
as  the  old  man  was  rousing  himself  from  his 
after-dinner  nap,  two  men  drove  up  to  the 
Walker  homestead,  tied  their  horse  at  the  gate, 
came  up  the  path  to  the  house  and  knocked  at 
the  door.  He,  himself,  answered  the  knock. 

"Yes,"  he  said  in  response  to  their  inquiry, 
"I'm  Enos  Walker,  and  I'm  to  hum." 

The  spokesman  of  the  two  was  a  tall  young 
man  with  a  very  black  moustache  and  a  merry 
twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"We're  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Walker,"  he  de- 
clared. "My  name  is  Hubert  Morrissey,  and 
the  gentleman  who  is  with  me  is  Mr.  Frank 
Campbell.  We're  on  a  hunting  expedition." 


130  THE  FLAG 

"Perty  late  in  the  season  fer  huntin',  ain't 
it?  The  law's  on  most  everything  now." 

"I  don't  think  the  law's  on  what  we're  hunt- 
ing for." 

"What  ye  huntin'  fer?" 

"Spruce  trees." 

"Eh?" 

"Spruce  trees.     Or,  rather,  one  spruce  tree." 

"Well,  ye  wouldn't  have  to  shoot  so  allfired 
straight  to  hit  one  in  these  parts.  I've  got  a 
swamp  full  of  'em  down  here." 

"So  we  understand.  But  we  want  a  choice 
one." 

"I've  got  some  that  can't  be  beat  this  side  the 
White  mountains." 

"We've  learned  that  also.  We  took  the  lib- 
erty of  looking  over  your  spruce  grove  on  our 
way  up  here." 

"Well;  they  didn't  nobody  hender  ye,  did 
they?" 

"No.  We  found  what  we  were  looking  for, 
all  right." 

"Jes'  so.     Come  in  an'  set  down." 

Grandpa  Walker  moved  ponderously  from 
the  doorway  in  which  he  had  been  standing,  to 


THE  FLAG  131 

his  comfortable  chair  by  the  window,  seated 
himself,  picked  up  his  pipe  from  the  window- 
sill,  filled  it,  lighted  it  and  began  puffing.  The 
two  men  entered  the  room,  closing  the  door 
behind  them,  and  found  chairs  for  themselves 
and  occupied  them.  Then  the  conversation 
was  renewed. 

"We'll  be  perfectly  frank  with  you,  Mr. 
Walker,"  said  Hubert  Morrissey,  "and  tell  you 
what  we  want  and  why  we  want  it.  It  is  pro- 
posed to  erect  a  first-class  liberty-pole  in  the 
school-yard  at  Chestnut  Hill.  A  handsome 
American  flag  has  already  been  given  to  the 
school.  The  next  thing  in  order  of  course  is 
the  pole.  Mr.  Campbell  and  I  have  been  au- 
thorized to  find  a  spruce  tree  that  will  fill  the 
bill,  buy  it,  and  have  it  cut  and  trimmed  and 
hauled  to  town  while  the  snow  is  still  on.  It 
has  to  be  dressed,  seasoned,  painted,  and  ready 
to  plant  by  the  time  the  frost  goes  out,  and 
there  isn't  a  day  to  lose.  There,  Mr.  Walker, 
that  is  our  errand." 

"Jes'  so.  Found  the  tree  did  ye?  down  in 
my  swamp?" 

"We  certainly  did." 


132  THE  FLAG 

"Nice  tree,  is  it?  What  ye  was  lookin' 
fer?" 

"It's  a  beauty!  Just  what  we  want.  I 
know  it  isn't  just  the  thing  to  crack  up  the 
goods  you're  trying  to  buy  from  the  other  fel- 
low, but  we  want  to  be  perfectly  fair  with  you, 
Mr.  Walker.  We  want  to  pay  you  what  the 
tree  is  worth.  Suppose  we  go  down  the  hill 
and  look  it  over,  and  then  you  can  doubtless 
give  us  your  price  on  it." 

"  'Tain't  ne'sary  to  go  down  an'  look  it  over. 
I  know  the  tree  ye've  got  your  eye  on." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Oh,  sort  o'  guessed  it.  It's  the  one  by  the 
corner  o'  the  rail  fence  on  the  fu'ther  side  o'  the 
brook  as  ye  go  in  from  the  road." 

"That's  a  good  guess.  It's  the  very  tree. 
Now  then,  what  about  the  price?" 

The  old  man  pulled  on  his  pipe  for  a  mo- 
ment with  rather  more  than  his  usual  vigor, 
then  removed  it  from  his  mouth  and  faced  his 
visitors. 

"Want  to  buy  that  tree,  do  ye?"  he  asked. 

"Sure  we  want  to  buy  it." 

"Cash  down,  jedgment  note,  or  what?" 


THE  FLAG  133 

The  man  with  the  black  moustache  smiled 
broadly,  showing  an  even  row  of  white  teeth. 

"Cash  down,"  he  replied.  "Gold,  silver  or 
greenbacks  as  you  prefer.  Every  dollar  in 
your  hands  before  an  axe  touches  the  tree." 

Grandpa  Walker  inserted  the  stem  of  his 
pipe  between  his  teeth,  and  again  lapsed  into  a 
contemplative  mood.  After  a  moment  he 
broke  the  silence  by  asking: 

"Got  the  flag,  hev  ye?" 

"Yes;  we  have  the  flag." 

"Might  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  what  the  flag 
cost?" 

"It  was  given  to  the  school." 

"Air  ye  tellin'  who  give  it?" 

"Why,  there's  no  secret  about  it.  Colonel 
Butler  gave  the  flag." 

"Dick  Butler?" 

"Colonel  Richard  Butler ;  yes." 

It  was  gradually  filtering  into  the  mind  of 
Mr.  Hubert  Morrissey  that  for  some  reason  the 
owner  of  the  tree  was  harboring  a  resentment 
against  the  giver  of  the  flag.  Then  he  sud- 
denly recalled  the  fact  that  Mr.  Walker  was 
the  father  of  Colonel  Butler's  daughter-in-law, 


134  THE  FLAG 

and  that  the  relation  between  the  two  men 
had  been  somewhat  strained.  But  Grandpa 
Walker  was  now  ready  with  another  question : 

"Is  Colonel  Richard  Butler  a  givin'  the  pole 
too?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  believe  he  furnishes  the  pole 
also." 

"It  was  him  't  sent  ye  out  here  a  lookin'  fer 
one;  was  it?" 

"He  asked  us  to  hunt  one  up  for  him,  cer- 
tainly." 

"Told  ye,  when  ye  found  one  't  was  right,  to 
git  it?  Not  to  haggle  about  the  price,  but  git 
it  an'  pay  fer  it?  Told  ye  that,  didn't  he?" 

"Well,  if  it  wasn't  just  that  it  was  first 
cousin  to  it." 

"Jes*  so.  Well,  you  go  back  to  Chestnut 
Hill,  an'  you  go  to  Colonel  Richard  Butler,  an' 
you  tell  Colonel  Richard  Butler  that  ef  he 
wants  to  buy  a  spruce  tree  from  Enos  Walker 
of  Cobb's  Corners,  to  come  here  an'  bargain  fer 
it  himself.  He'll  find  me  to  hum  most  any 
day.  How's  the  sleighin'  ?" 

"Pretty  fair.    But,  Mr.  Walker—" 

"No  buts,  ner  ifs,  ner  ands.    Ye  heard  what 


THE  FLAG  135 

I  said,  an'  I  stan'  by  it  till  the  crack  o'  jedg- 
ment." 

The  old  man  rose,  knocked  the  ashes  out  of 
his  pipe  and  put  the  pipe  in  his  vest  pocket, 
stretched  himself,  and  reached  for  his  cap.  It 
was  plain  that  he  considered  the  interview  at 
an  end.  The  persuasive  Mr.  Morrissey  tried 
to  get  a  wedge  in  somewhere  to  reopen  it,  but 
he  tried  in  vain.  Enos  Walker  was  adamant. 
So,  disappointed  and  discomfited,  the  emis- 
saries of  Colonel  Richard  Butler  bade  "good- 
day,"  to  the  oracle  of  Cobb's  Corners,  and 
drove  back  to  Chestnut  Hill. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ON  the  morning  after  the  interview  with 
Enos  Walker,  Mr.  Morrissey  and  Mr.  Camp- 
bell went  up  to  Bannerhall  to  report  to  Colonel 
Richard  Butler.  But  they  went  hesitatingly. 
Indeed,  it  had  been  a  question  in  their  minds 
whether  it  would  not  be  wiser  to  say  nothing 
to  Colonel  Butler  concerning  their  experience 
at  Cobb's  Corners,  and  simply  to  go  elsewhere 
and  hunt  up  another  tree.  But  Mr.  Walker's 
tree  was  such  a  model  of  perfection  for  their 
purpose,  the  possibility  of  finding  another  one 
that  would  even  approach  it  in  suitability  was 
so  extremely  remote,  that  the  two  gentlemen, 
after  serious  discussion  of  the  question,  being 
well  aware  of  Colonel  Butler's  idiosyncrasies, 
decided,  finally,  to  put  the  whole  case  up  to 
him,  and  to  accept  cheerfully  whatever  he  might 
have  in  store  for  them.  There  was  one  chance 
in  a  hundred  that  the  colonel,  instead  of  scorn- 
fully resenting  Enos  Walker's  proposal,  might 


THE  FLAG  137 

take  the  matter  philosophically  and  accept  the 
old  man's  terms.  They  thought  it  better  to 
take  that  chance. 

They  found  Colonel  Butler  in  his  office  ad- 
joining the  library.  He  was  in  an  ordinarily 
cheerful  mood,  although  the  deep  shadows  un- 
der his  eyes,  noticeable  only  within  the  last  few 
weeks,  indicated  that  he  had  been  suffering 
either  in  mind  or  in  body,  perhaps  in  both. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  said  when  his  visitors 
were  seated;  "what  about  the  arboreal  errand? 
Did  you  find  a  tree?" 

Mr.  Hubert  Morrissey,  as  he  had  been  the 
day  before,  was  again,  to-day,  the  spokesman 
for  his  committee  of  two. 

"We  found  a  tree,"  he  replied. 

"One  in  all  respects  satisfactory  I  hope?" 
the  colonel  inquired. 

"Eminently  satisfactory,"  was  the  answer. 
"In  fact  a  perfect  beauty.  I  doubt  if  it  has  its 
equal  in  this  section  of  the  state.  Wouldn't 
you  say  so,  Mr.  Campbell?" 

"I  fully  agree  with  you,"  reph'ed  Mr.  Camp- 
bell. "It's  without  a  peer." 

"How  will  it  measure?"  inquired  the  colonel. 


138  THE  FLAG 

"I  should  say,"  responded  Mr.  Morrissey, 
"that  it  will  dress  up  to  about  twelve  inches  at 
the  base,  and  will  stand  about  fifty  feet  to  the 
ball  on  the  summit.  Shouldn't  you  say  so, 
Mr.  Campbell?" 

"Just  about,"  was  the  reply.  "Not  an  inch 
under  those  figures,  in  my  judgment." 

"Good!"  exclaimed  the  colonel.  "Permit 
me  to  congratulate  you,  gentlemen.  You  have 
performed  a  distinct  public  service.  You  de- 
serve the  thanks  of  the  entire  community." 

"But,  colonel,"  said  Mr.  Morrissey  with 
some  hesitation,  "we  were  not  quite  able  to 
close  a  satisfactory  bargain  with  the  owner  of 
the  tree." 

"That  is  unfortunate,  gentlemen.  You 
should  not  have  permitted  a  few  dollars  to 
stand  in  the  way  of  securing  your  prize.  I 
thought  I  gave  you  a  perfectly  free  hand  to  do 
as  you  thought  best." 

"So  you  did,  colonel.  But  the  hitch  was 
not  so  much  over  a  matter  of  price  as  over  a 
matter  of  principle." 

"Over  a  matter  of  principle?  I  don't  un- 
derstand you,  sir.  How  could  any  citizen  of 


THE  FLAG  139 

this  free  country  object,  as  a  matter  of  prin- 
ciple, to  having  his  tree  converted  into  a  staff 
from  the  summit  of  which  the  emblem  of  liberty 
might  be  flung  to  the  breeze?  Especially 
when  he  was  free  to  name  his  own  price  for 
the  tree." 

"But  he  wouldn't  name  any  price." 

"Did  he  refuse  to  sell?" 

"Not  exactly;  but  he  wouldn't  bargain  ex- 
cept on  a  condition  that  we  were  unable  to 
meet." 

"What  condition?  Who  is  the  man? 
Where  does  he  live?" 

Colonel  Butler  was  growing  plainly  impa- 
tient over  the  obstructive  tactics  in  which  the 
owner  of  the  tree  had  indulged. 

"He  lives,"  replied  Mr.  Morrissey,  "at 
Cobb's  Corners.  His  name  is  Enos  Walker. 
His  condition  is  that  you  go  to  him  in  person 
to  bargain  for  the  tree.  There's  the  situation, 
colonel.  Now  you  have  it  all." 

The  veteran  of  the  Civil  War  straightened 
up  in  his  chair,  threw  back  his  shoulders,  and 
gazed  at  his  visitors  in  silence.  Surprise,  an- 
ger, contempt;  these  were  the  emotions  the 


140  THE  FLAG 

shadows  of  which  successively  overspread  his 
face. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  at  last,  "are  you  aware 
what  a  preposterous  proposition  you  have 
brought  to  me?" 

"It  is  not  our  proposition,  colonel." 

"I  know  it  is  not,  sir.  You  are  simply  the 
bearers  of  it.  Permit  me  to  ask  you,  however, 
if  it  is  your  recommendation  that  I  yield  to 
the  demand  of  this  crude  highwayman  of 
Cobb's  Corners?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Campbell  and  I  have  talked  the 
matter  over,  and,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  this 
appears  to  be  the  only  available  tree  within 
easy  reach,  and  is  so  splendidly  adapted  to  our 
purposes,  we  have  thought  that  possibly  you 
might  suggest  some  method  whereby — " 

"Gentlemen — "  Colonel  Butler  had  risen 
from  his  chair  and  was  pacing  angrily  up  and 
down  the  room.  His  face  was  flushed  and  his 
fingers  were  working  nervously.  "Gentle- 
men— "  he  interrupted — "my  fortune  is  at 
your  disposal.  Purchase  the  tree  where  you 
will;  on  the  hills  of  Maine,  in  the  swamps 
of  Georgia,  on  the  plains  of  California.  But 


THE  FLAG  141 

do  not  suggest  to  me,  gentlemen;  do  not  dare 
to  suggest  to  me  that  I  yield  to  the  outrageous 
demand  of  this  person  who  has  made  you  the 
bearers  of  his  impertinent  ultimatum." 

Mr.  Morrissey  rose  in  his  turn,  followed  by 
Mr.  Campbell. 

"Very  well,  colonel,"  said  the  spokesman. 
"We  will  try  to  procure  the  tree  elsewhere. 
We  thought  it  no  more  than  right  to  report  to 
you  first  what  we  had  done.  That  is  the  situa- 
tion is  it  not,  Mr.  Campbell?" 

"That  is  the  situation,  exactly,"  assented 
Mr.  Campbell. 

The  colonel  had  reached  the  window  in  his 
round  of  the  room,  and  had  stopped  there. 

"That  was  quite  the  thing  to  do,  gentlemen," 
he  replied.  "A — quite — the  thing — to  do." 

He  stood  gazing  intently  out  through  the 
window  at  the  banks  of  snow  settling  and  wast- 
ing under  the  bright  March  sunshine.  Not 
that  his  eyes  had  been  attracted  to  anything  in 
particular  on  his  lawn,  but  that  a  thought  had 
entered  his  mind  which  demanded,  for  the  mo- 
ment, his  undivided  attention. 

His  two  visitors  stood  waiting,  somewhat 


142  THE  FLAG 

awkwardly,  for  him  to  turn  again  toward  them, 
but  he  did  not  do  so.  At  last  Mr.  Morrissey 
plucked  up  courage  to  break  in  on  his  host's 
reverie. 

"I — I  think  we  understand  you  now,  col- 
onel," he  said.  "We'll  go  elsewhere  and  do 
the  best  we  can." 

Colonel  Butler  faced  away  from  the  window 
and  came  back  into  the  room. 

"Pardon  me,  gentlemen,"  he  said.  "My 
mind  was  temporarily  occupied  by  a  thought 
that  has  come  to  me  in  this  matter.  Upon 
further  consideration  it  occurs  to  me  that  it 
may  be  expedient  for  me  to  yield  on  this  occa- 
sion to  Mr.  Walker's  request,  and  visit  him  in 
person.  In  the  meantime  you  may  suspend 
operations.  I  will  advise  you  later  of  the  out- 
come of  my  plans." 

"You  are  undoubtedly  wise,  colonel,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Morrissey,  "to  make  a  further  effort 
to  secure  this  particular  tree.  Wouldn't  you 
say  so,  Mr.  Campbell?" 

"Undoubtedly!"  replied  Mr.  Campbell  with 
some  warmth. 

So  the  matter  was  left  in  that  way.     Colonel 


THE  FLAG  143 

Butler  was  to  inform  his  agents  what,  if  any- 
thing, he  had  been  able  to  accomplish  by  means 
of  a  personal  interview  with  Mr.  Walker,  al- 
ways assuming  that  he  should  finally  and  defi- 
nitely decide  to  seek  such  an  interview.  And 
Mr.  Hubert  Morrisseyr  and  Mr.  Frank  Camp- 
bell bowed  themselves  out  of  Colonel  Butler's 
presence. 

While  the  cause  of  this  sudden  change  of 
attitude  on  Colonel  Butler's  part  remained  a 
mystery  to  his  two  visitors,  it  was,  in  reality, 
not  far  to  seek.  For,  as  he  looked  out  at  his 
window  that  March  morning,  he  saw,  not  the 
bare  trees  on  the  lawn,  not  the  brown  hedge  or 
the  beaten  roadway;  he  saw,  out  somewhere 
among  the  snow-covered  fields,  laboring  as  a 
farmer's  boy,  enduring  the  privations  of  a 
humble  home,  and  the  limitations  of  a  narrow 
environment,  the  lad  who  for  a  dozen  years 
had  been  his  solace  and  his  pride,  the  light  and 
the  life  of  Bannerhall.  How  sadly  he  missed 
the  boy,  no  one,  save  perhaps  his  faithful 
daughter,  had  any  conception.  And  she  knew 
it,  not  because  of  any  word  of  complaint  that 
had  escaped  his  lips,  but  because  every  look  and 


144  THE  FLAG 

mood  and  motion  told  her  the  story.  He 
would  not  send  for  his  grandson ;  he  would  not 
ask  him  to  come  back;  he  would  not  force  him 
to  come.  It  was  a  piece  of  childish  folly  on  the 
boy's  part  no  doubt,  this  going  away;  due  to 
his  impetuous  nature  and  his  immature  years; 
but,  he  had  made  his  bed,  now  let  him  lie  in  it 
till  he  should  come  to  a  realization  of  what 
he  had  done,  and,  like  the  prodigal  son  of  old, 
should  come  back  of  his  own  accord,  and  ask 
to  be  forgiven.  Yet  the  days  went  by,  and  the 
weeks  grew  long,  and  no  prodigal  returned. 
There  was  no  abatement  of  determination  on 
the  grandfather's  part,  but  the  idea  grew  slowly 
in  his  mind  that  if  by  some  chance,  far  removed 
from  even  the  suspicion  of  design,  they  should 
encounter  each  other,  he  and  the  boy,  face  to 
face,  in  the  village  street,  on  the  open  road,  in 
field  or  farm-house,  something  might  be  said 
or  done  that  would  lead  to  the  longed-for  re- 
conciliation. It  was  the  practical  application 
of  this  thought  that  led  to  his  change  of  attitude 
that  morning  in  the  presence  of  his  visitors. 
He  would  have  a  legitimate  errand  to  the  home 
of  Enos  Walker.  The  incidental  opportuni- 


THE  FLAG  145 

ties  that  might  lie  in  the  path  of  such  an  errand 
properly  fulfilled,  were  not  to  be  lightly  ig- 
nored nor  peremptorily  dismissed.  At  any 
rate  the  matter  was  worth  careful  considera- 
tion. He  considered  it,  and  made  his  decision. 

That  afternoon,  after  his  daughter  Millicent 
had  gone  down  into  the  village  in  entire  ignor- 
ance of  any  purpose  that  he  might  have  had 
to  leave  the  house,  he  ordered  his  horse  and  cut- 
ter for  a  drive.  Later  he  changed  the  order, 
and  directed  that  his  team  and  two-seated 
sleigh  be  brought  to  the  door.  It  had  occurred 
to  him  that  there  was  a  bare  possibility  that  he 
might  have  a  passenger  on  his  return  trip. 
Then  he  arrayed  himself  in  knee-high  rubber 
boots,  a  heavy  overcoat,  and  a  fur  cap.  At 
three  o'clock  he  entered  his  sleigh  and  directed 
his  driver  to  proceed  with  all  reasonable  haste 
to  Cobb's  Corners. 

Out  in  the  country  where  the  winds  of  win- 
ter had  piled  the  snow  into  long  heaps,  the 
beaten  track  was  getting  soft,  and  it  was  nec- 
essary to  exercise  some  care  in  order  to  prevent 
the  horses  from  slumping  through  the  drifts  to 
the  road-bed.  And  on  the  westerly  slope  of 


146  THE  FLAG 

Baldwin's  Hill  the  ground  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  was  bare  for  at  least  forty  rods.  But, 
from  that  point  on,  whether  his  progress  was 
fast  or  slow,  Colonel  Butler  scrutinized  the  way 
ahead  of  him,  and  the  farm-houses  that  he 
passed,  with  painstaking  care.  He  was  not 
looking  for  any  spruce  tree  here,  no  matter  how 
straight  and  tall.  But  if  haply  some  farmer's 
boy  should  be  out  on  an  errand  for  the  master 
of  the  farm,  it  would  be  inexcusable  to  pass  him 
negligently  by ;  that  was  all.  And  yet  his  vig- 
ilance met  with  no  reward.  He  had  not  caught 
the  remotest  glimpse  of  such  a  boy  when  his 
sleigh  drew  up  at  Enos  Walker's  gate. 

The  unusual  jingling  of  bells  brought  Sarah 
Butler  and  her  sister  to  the  window  of  the  sit- 
ting-room to  see  who  it  was  that  was  bringing 
such  a  flood  of  tinkling  music  up  the  road. 

"For  the  land  sakes!"  exclaimed  the  sister; 
"it's  Richard  Butler,  and  he's  stopping  here. 
I  bet  a  cookie  he's  come  after  Pen." 

But  Pen's  mother  did  not  respond.  Her 
heart  was  beating  too  fast,  she  could  not  speak. 

"You've  got  to  go  to  the  door,  Sarah,"  con- 
tinued the  sister;  "I'm  not  dressed." 


THE  FLAG  147 

Colonel  Butler  was  already  on  his  way  up 
the  path,  and,  a  moment  later,  his  knock  was 
heard  at  the  door.  It  was  opened  by  Sarah 
Butler  who  stood  there  facing  him  with  out- 
ward calmness.  Evidently  the  colonel  had  not 
anticipated  seeing  her,  and,  for  the  moment, 
he  was  apparently  disconcerted.  But  he  re- 
covered himself  at  once  and  inquired  court- 
eously if  Mr.  Walker  was  at  home.  It  was 
the  third  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  spoken 
to  his  daughter-in-law.  The  first  time  was 
when  she  returned  from  her  bridal  trip,  and  the 
interview  on  that  occasion  had  been  brief  and 
decisive.  The  second  time  was  when  her  hus- 
band was  lying  dead  in  the  modest  home  to 
which  he  had  taken  her.  Now  he  had  spoken 
to  her  again,  and  this  time  there  was  no  bit- 
terness in  his  tone  nor  iciness  in  his  man- 
ner. 

"Yes,"  she  replied;  "father  is  somewhere 
about.  If  you  will  please  come  in  and  be 
seated  I  will  try  to  find  him." 

He  followed  her  into  the  sitting-room,  and 
took  the  chair  that  she  placed  for  him. 

"I  beg  that  you  will  not  put  yourself  to  too 


148  THE  FLAG 

much  trouble,"  he  said,  "in  trying  to  find  him; 
although  I  desire  to  see  him  on  a  somewhat 
important  errand." 

"It  will  not  be  the  slightest  trouble,"  she 
assured  him. 

But,  as  she  turned  to  go,  he  added  as  though 
a  new  thought  had  come  to  him : 

"Perhaps  you  have  some  young  person  about 
the  premises  whom  you  could  send  out  in 
search  of  Mr.  Walker,  and  thus  save  yourself 
the  effort  of  finding  him." 

"No,"  she  replied.  "There  is  no  young  per- 
son here.  I  will  go  myself.  It  will  take  but 
a  minute  or  two." 

It  was  a  feeble  attempt  on  his  part,  and  it 
had  been  quickly  foiled.  So  there  was  nothing 
for  him  to  do  but  to  sit  quietly  in  the  chair  that 
had  been  placed  for  him,  and  await  the  com- 
ing of  Enos  Walker. 

Yet  he  could  not  help  but  wonder  as  he  sat 
there,  what  had  become  of  Pen.  She  had  said 
that  there  was  no  young  person  there.  Was 
the  boy's  absence  only  temporary,  or  had  he 
left  the  home  of  his  maternal  grandfather  and 
gone  to  some  place  still  more  remote  and  inac- 


THE  FLAG  149 

cesssible?  He  was  consumed  with  a  desire  to 
know ;  but  he  would  not  have  made  the  inquiry, 
save  as  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 

It  was  fully  five  minutes  later  that  the  guest 
in  the  sitting-room  heard  some  one  stamping 
the  snow  off  his  boots  in  the  kitchen  adjoining, 
then  the  door  of  the  room  was  opened,  and 
Enos  Walker  stood  on  the  threshold.  His 
trousers  were  tucked  into  the  tops  of  his  boots, 
his  heavy  reefer  jacket  was  tightly  buttoned, 
and  his  cloth  cap  was  still  on  his  head. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Butler,"  he  said. 
"I'm  pleased  to  see  ye.  I  didn't  know  as  ye'd 
think  it  wuth  while  to  come." 

"It  is  always  worth  while,"  replied  the  col- 
onel, "to  meet  a  business  proposition  frankly 
and  fairly.  I  am  here,  at  your  suggestion,  to 
discuss  with  you  the  matter  of  the  purchase  of 
a  certain  tree." 

Grandpa  Walker  advanced  into  the  room, 
closing  the  door  behind  him,  went  over  to  the 
window,  laid  aside  his  cap,  and  dropped  into 
his  accustomed  chair. 

"Jes'  so,"  he  said.  "Set  down,  an'  we'll  talk 
it  over."  When  the  colonel  was  seated  he  con- 


150  THE  FLAG 

tinued :  "They  tell  me  ye  want  to  buy  a  spruce 
tree.  Is  that  right?" 

"That  is  correct." 

"Want  it  fer  a  flag-pole,  eh?" 

"Yes.  It  is  proposed  to  erect  a  staff  on  the 
school  grounds  at  Chestnut  Hill." 

"Jes'  so.  In  that  case  ye  want  a  perty  good 
one.  Tall,  straight,  slender,  small-limbed; 
proper  in  every  way." 

"Exactly." 

"Well,  I've  got  it." 

"So  I  have  heard.  I  have  come  to  bargain 
for  it." 

"All  right!  Want  to  look  at  it  fust,  I 
s'pose." 

"I  have  come  prepared  to  inspect  it." 

"That's  business.  I'll  go  down  to  the 
swamp  with  ye  an'  we'll  look  her  over." 

Grandpa  Walker  rose  from  his  chair  and 
replaced  his  cap  on  his  head. 

"Is  the  tree  located  at  some  distance  from 
the  house?"  inquired  the  colonel. 

"Oh,  mebbe  a  quarter  of  a  mile;  mebbe  not 
so  fer." 

"A — have  you  some  young  person  about, 


THE  FLAG  151 

whom  you  could  send  with  me  to  inspect  it,  and 
thus  save  yourself  the  trouble  of  tramping 
through  the  snow?" 

Grandpa  Walker  looked  at  his  visitor  curi- 
ously before  replying. 

"No,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "I  ain't. 
I've  got  a  young  feller  stoppin'  with  me;  but 
he  started  up  to  Henry  Cobb's  about  two 
o'clock.  How  fer  beyond  Henry's  he's  got  by 
this  time  I  can't  say.  I  ain't  so  soople  as  I 
was  once,  that's  a  fact.  But  when  it  comes  to 
trampin'  through  the  woods,  snow  er  no  snow, 
I  reckon  I  can  hold  up  my  end  with  anybody 
that  wears  boots.  Ef  ye're  ready,  come 
along!" 

A  look  of  disappointment  came  into  the 
colonel's  face.  He  did  not  move.  After  a 
moment  he  said : 

"On  second  thought,  I  believe  I  will  not  take 
the  time  nor  the  trouble  to  inspect  the  tree." 

"Don't  want  it,  eh?" 

"Yes,  I  want  it.  I'll  take  it  on  your  recom- 
mendation and  that  of  my  agents,  Messrs.  Mor- 
rissey  and  Campbell.  If  you'll  name  your 
price  I'll  pay  you  for  it." 


152  THE  FLAG 

Grandpa  Walker  went  back  and  sat  down 
in  his  cushioned  chair  by  the  window.  He 
laid  his  cap  aside,  picked  up  his  pipe  from 
the  window-sill,  lighted  it,  and  began  to 
smoke. 

"Well,"  he  said,  at  last,  "that's  a  prime  tree. 
That  tree's  wuth  money." 

"Undoubtedly,  sir;  undoubtedly;  but  how 
much  money?" 

The  old  man  puffed  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
Then  he  asked: 

"Want  it  fer  a  liberty-pole,  do  ye?" 

"I  want  it  for  a  liberty-pole." 

"To  put  the  school  flag  on?" 

"To  put  the  school  flag  on." 

There  was  another  moment  of  silence. 

"They  say,"  remarked  the  old  man,  inquir- 
ingly, "that  you  gave  the  flag?" 

"I  gave  the  flag." 

"Then,  by  cracky!    I'll  give  the  pole." 

Enos  Walker  rose  vigorously  to  his  feet  in 
order  properly  to  emphasize  his  offer.  Colonel 
Butler  did  not  respond.  This  sudden  turn  of 
affairs  had  almost  taken  away  his  breath. 
Then  a  grim  smile  stole  slowly  into  his  face. 


THE  FLAG  153 

The  humor  of  the  situation  began  to  appeal  to 
him. 

"Permit  me  to  commend  you,"  he  said,  "for 
your  liberality  and  patriotism." 

"I  didn't  fight  in  no  Civil  War,"  added  the 
old  man,  emphatically;  "but  I  ain't  goin'  to  hev 
it  said  by  nobody  that  Enos  Walker  ever 
profited  a  penny  on  a  pole  fer  his  country's 
flag." 

The  old  soldier's  smile  broadened. 

"Good!"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  very  good. 
We'll  stand  together  as  joint  donors  of  the  em- 
blem of  freedom." 

"And  I  ain't  ashamed  of  it  nuther,"  cried  the 
new  partner,  "an'  here's  my  hand  on  it." 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  and  this  time 
Colonel  Richard  Butler  laughed  outright. 

"This  is  fine,"  he  said.  "I'll  send  men  to- 
morrow to  cut  the  tree  down,  trim  it,  and  haul 
it  to  town.  There's  no  time  to  lose.  The 
roads  are  getting  soft.  Why,  half  of  Bald- 
win's Hill  is  already  bare." 

He  started  toward  the  door,  but  his  host 
called  him  back. 

"Don't    be    in    a    hurry,"    said    Grandpa 


154  THE  FLAG 

Walker.  "Set  down  a  while,  can't  ye?  Have 
a  piece  o'  pie  or  suthin.  Or  a  glass  o'  cider." 

"Thank  you!  Nothing  at  all.  I'm  in  some 
haste.  It's  getting  late.  And — I  desire  to 
make  a  brief  call  on  Henry  Cobb  before  re- 
turning home." 

The  old  man  made  no  further  effort  to  de- 
tain his  visitor ;  but  he  gave  him  a  cordial  invi- 
tation to  come  again,  shook  hands  with  him  at 
the  door,  and  watched  him  half  way  down  to 
the  gate.  When  he  turned  and  re-entered  his 
house  he  found  his  two  daughters  already  in 
the  sitting-room. 

"Did  he  come  for  Pen?"  asked  Sarah  But- 
ler, breathlessly. 

"Ef  he  did,"  replied  her  father,  "he  didn't 
say  so.  He  wanted  my  spruce  tree,  and  I  give 
it  to  him.  And  I  want  to  tell  ye  one  thing 
fu'ther.  I've  got  a  sort  o'  sneakin*  notion  that 
Colonel  Richard  Butler  of  Chestnut  Hill  ain't 
more'n  about  one-quarter's  bad  as  he's  be'n 
painted." 

Henry  Cobb's  residence  was  scarcely  a  half 
mile  beyond  the  home  of  Enos  Walker.  It 
was  the  most  imposing  farm-house  in  that 


THE  FLAG  155 

neighborhood,  splendidly  situated  on  high 
ground,  with  a  rare  outlook  to  the  south  and 
east.  Mr.  Cobb  himself  was  just  emerging 
from  the  open  door  of  a  great  barn  that  fronted 
the  road  as  Colonel  Butler  drove  up.  He  came 
out  to  the  sleigh  and  greeted  the  occupant  of  it 
cordially.  The  two  men  were  old  friends. 

"It's  a  magnificent  view  you  have  here,"  said 
the  colonel;  "magnificent!" 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "we  rather  enjoy  it. 
I've  lived  in  this  neighborhood  all  my  life,  and 
the  longer  I  live  here  the  better  I  like  it." 

"That's  the  proper  spirit,  sir,  the  proper 
spirit." 

For  a  moment  both  men  looked  off  across  the 
snow-mantled  valleys  and  the  wooded  slopes, 
to  the  summit  of  the  hill-range  far  to  the  east, 
touched  with  the  soft  light  of  the  sinking  sun. 

"You're  quite  a  stranger  in  these  parts,"  said 
Henry  Cobb,  breaking  the  silence. 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply.  "I  don't  often  get 
up  here.  I  came  up  to-day  to  make  an  ar- 
rangement with  your  neighbor,  Mr.  Walker, 
for  the  purchase  of  a  very  fine  spruce  tree  on 
his  property." 


156  THE  FLAG 

"So?  Did  you  succeed  in  closing  a  bargain 
with  him?'' 

"Yes.     He  has  consented  to  let  it  go." 

"You  don't  say  so !  I  would  hardly  have  be- 
lieved it.  Now,  I  don't  want  to  be  curious  nor 
anything ;  but  would  you  mind  telling  me  what 
you  had  to  pay  for  it?" 

"Nothing.     He  gave  it  to  us." 

"He— what?" 

"He  gave  it  to  us  to  be  used  as  a  flag-staff 
on  the  grounds  of  the  public  school  at  Chestnut 
Hill." 

"You  don't  mean  that  he  gave  you  that  won- 
derful spruce  that  stands  down  in  the  corner 
of  his  swamp ;  the  one  Morrissey  and  Campbell 
were  up  looking  at  yesterday?" 

"I  believe  that  is  the  one." 

"Why,  colonel,  that  spruce  was  the  apple 
of  his  eye.  If  I've  heard  him  brag  that  tree  up 
once,  I've  heard  him  brag  it  up  fifty  times. 
He  never  gave  away  anything  in  his  life  be- 
fore. What's  come  over  the  old  man,  any- 
way?" 

"Well,  when  he  learned  that  I  had  donated 
the  flag,  he  declared  that  he  would  donate  the 


THE  FLAG  157 

staff.  I  suppose  he  didn't  want  to  be  outdone 
in  the  matter  of  patriotism." 

"Good  for  him!"  exclaimed  Henry  Cobb. 
"He'll  be  a  credit  to  his  country  yet;"  and  he 
laughed  merrily.  Then,  sobering  down,  he 
added:  "But,  say;  look  here!  can't  you  let  me 
in  on  this  thing  too?  I  don't  want  to  be  out- 
done by  either  of  you.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll 
do.  I'll  cut  the  tree,  and  trim  it,  and  haul  it 
to  town  tomorrow,  free  gratis  for  nothing. 
What  do  you  say?" 

Then  the  colonel  laughed  in  his  turn,  and 
he  reached  out  his  one  hand  and  shook  hands 
warmly  with  Henry  Cobb. 

"Splendid!"  he  cried.  "This  efflorescence  of 
patriotism  in  the  rural  districts  is  enough  to 
delight  an  old  soldier's  heart!" 

"All  right !  I'll  have  the  pole  there  by  four 
o'clock  tomorrow  afternoon,  and  you  can  de- 
pend on  it." 

"I  will.  And  I  thank  you,  sir;  not  only  on 
my  own  account,  but  also  in  the  name  of  the 
public  of  Chestnut  Hill,  and  on  behalf  of  our 
beloved  country.  Now  I  must  go.  I  have 
decided,  in  returning,  to  drive  across  by  Dar- 


158  THE  FLAG 

bytown,  strike  the  creek  road,  and  go  down 
home  by  that  route  in  order  to  avoid  drifts  and 
bare  places.  Oh,  by  the  way,  there's  a  little 
matter  I  neglected  to  speak  to  Mr.  Walker 
about.  It's  of  no  great  moment,  but  I  un- 
derstand his  grandson  came  up  here  this 
afternoon,  and,  if  he  is  still  here,  I  will 
take  the  opportunity  to  send  back  word  by 
him." 

^Je  made  the  inquiry  with  as  great  an  air  of 
indifference  as  he  could  assume,  but  his  breath 
came  quick  as  he  waited  for  an  answer. 

"Why,"  replied  Henry  Cobb,  "Pen  was 
here  along  about  three  o'clock.  He  was  look- 
ing for  a  two-year  old  heifer  that  strayed  away 
yesterday.  He  went  over  toward  Darby  town. 
You  might  run  across  him  if  you're  going  that 
way.  But  I'll  send  your  message  down  to 
Enos  Walker  if  you  wish." 

"Thank  you!  It  doesn't  matter.  I  may 
possibly  see  the  young  man  along  the  road. 
Goodnight!" 

"Goodnight,  colonel!" 

The  impatient  horses  were  given  rein  once 
more,  and  dashed  away  to  the  music  of  the  two 


THE  FLAG  159 

score  bells  that  hung  from  their  shining  har- 
ness. 

But,  although  Colonel  Richard  Butler 
scanned  every  inch  of  the  way  from  Henry 
Cobb's  to  Darbytown,  with  anxious  and  long- 
ing eyes,  he  did  not  once  catch  sight  of  any 
farmer's  boy  searching  for  a  two-year  old  heifer 
that  had  strayed  from  its  home. 

At  dusk  he  stepped  wearily  from  his  sleigh 
and  mounted  the  steps  that  led  to  the  porch  of 
Bannerhall.  His  daughter  met  him  at  the 
door. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  father!"  she  exclaimed; 
"where  on  earth  have  you  been?" 

"I  have  been  to  Cobb's  Corners,"  was  the 
quiet  reply. 

"Did  you  get  Pen?"  she  asked,  excitedly. 

"I  did  not." 

"Wouldn't  Mr.  Walker  let  him  come?" 

"I  made  no  request  of  any  one  for  my 
grandson's  return.  I  went  to  obtain  a  spruce 
tree  from  Mr.  Walker,  out  of  which  to  make  a 
flag-staff  for  the  school  grounds.  I  obtained 
it." 

"That's  a  wonder." 


160  THE  FLAG 

"It  is  not  a  wonder,  Millicent.  Permit  me 
to  say,  as  one  speaking  from  experience,  that 
when  accused  of  selfishness,  Enos  Walker 
has  been  grossly  maligned.  I  have  found  him 
to  be  a  public-spirited  citizen,  and  a  much  bet- 
ter man,  in  all  respects,  than  he  has  been 
painted." 

His  daughter  made  no  further  inquiries,  for 
she  saw  that  he  was  not  in  a  mood  to  be  ques- 
tioned. But,  from  that  day  forth,  the  shadow 
of  sorrow  and  of  longing  grew  deeper  on  his 
care-furrowed  face. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  was  well  along  in  April,  that  year,  before 
the  last  of  the  winter's  snow  disappeared,  and 
the  robins  and  blue-birds  darted  in  and  out 
among  the  naked  trees.  But,  as  the  sun  grew 
high,  and  the  days  long,  and  the  spring  languor 
filled  the  air,  Pen  felt  an  ever-increasing  dissat- 
isfaction with  his  position  in  his  grandfather 
Walker's  household,  and  an  ever-increasing  de- 
sire to  relinquish  it.  Not  that  he  was  afraid  or 
ashamed  to  work;  he  had  sufficiently  demon- 
strated that  he  was  not.  Not  that  he  ever  ex- 
pected to  return  to  Bannerhall,  for  he  had  no 
such  thought.  To  beg  to  be  taken  back  was 
unthinkable;  that  he  should  be  invited  back 
was  most  improbable.  He  had  not  seen  his 
grandfather  Butler  since  he  came  away,  nor 
had  he  heard  from  him,  except  for  the  vivid  and 
oft-repeated  recital  by  Grandpa  Walker  of  the 
spruce  tree  episode,  and  save  through  his  Aunt 
Millicent  who  made  occasional  visits  to  the  fam- 
ily at  Cobb's  Corners.  That  he  deplored 


162  THE  FLAG 

Pen's  departure  there  could  be  no  doubt,  but 
that  he  would  either  invite  or  compel  him  to 
return  was  beyond  belief.  So  Pen's  tasks  had 
come  to  be  very  irksome  to  him,  and  his  mode 
of  life  very  dissatisfying.  If  he  worked  he 
wanted  to  work  for  himself,  at  a  task  in  which 
he  could  take  interest  and  pride.  At  Cobb's 
Corners  he  could  see  no  future  for  himself  wor- 
thy of  the  name.  Many  times  he  discussed  the 
situation  with  his  mother,  and,  painful  as  it 
would  be  to  her  to  lose  him,  she  agreed  with 
him  that  he  must  go.  He  waited  only  the  op- 
portunity. 

One  day,  late  in  April,  Robert  Starbird 
dropped  in  while  the  members  of  the  Walker 
family  were  at  dinner.  He  was  a  wool-buyer 
for  the  Starbird  Woolen  Company  of  Low- 
bridge,  and  a  nephew  of  its  president.  Hav- 
ing completed  a  bargain  with  Grandpa 
Walker  for  his  scanty  spring  clipping  of  fleece, 
he  turned  to  Pen. 

"Haven't  I  seen  you  at  Colonel  Butler's, 
down  at  Chestnut  Hill?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,"  replied  Pen,  "I'm  his  grandson.  I 
used  to  live  there." 


THE  FLAG  163 

"I  thought  so.     Staying  here  now,  are  you?" 

"Until  I  can  get  regular  work;  yes,  sir." 

"Want  a  job,  do  you?" 

"I'd  like  one,  very  much." 

"Well,  we'll  need  a  bobbin-boy  at  the  mills 
pretty  soon.  I  suppose — " 

And  then  Grandpa  Walker  interrupted. 

"I  guess,"  he  said,  "  't  we  can  keep  the  young 
man  busy  here  for  a  while  yet." 

Robert  Starbird  looked  curiously  for  a  mo- 
ment, from  man  to  boy,  and  then,  saying  that 
he  must  go  on  up  to  Henry  Cobb's  to  make  a 
deal  with  him  for  his  fleece,  he  went  out  to  his 
buggy,  got  in  and  drove  away. 

Pen  went  back  to  his  work  in  the  field  with  a 
sinking  heart.  It  had  not  before  occurred  to 
him  that  Grandpa  Walker  would  object  to  his 
leaving  him  whenever  he  should  find  satisfac- 
tory and  profitable  employment  elsewhere. 
But  it  was  now  evident  that,  if  he  went,  he  must 
go  against  his  grandfather's  will.  His  first 
opportunity  had  already  been  blocked.  What 
opposition  he  would  meet  with  in  the  future 
he  could  only  conjecture. 

With  Old  Charlie  hitched  to  a  stone-boat, 


164  THE  FLAG 

he  was  drawing  stones  from  a  neighbor's  field 
to  the  roadside,  where  men  were  engaged  in 
laying  up  a  stone  wall.  He  had  not  been  long 
at  work  since  the  dinner  hour,  when,  chancing 
to  look  up,  he  saw  Robert  Starbird  driving 
down  the  hill  from  Henry  Cobb's  on  his  way 
back  to  Chestnut  Hill.  A  sudden  impulse 
seized  him.  He  threw  the  reins  across  Old 
Charlie's  back,  left  him  standing  willingly  in 
his  tracks,  and  started  on  a  run  across  the  lot 
to  head  off  Robert  Starbird  at  the  roadside. 
The  man  saw  him  coming  and  stopped  his 
horse. 

Panting  a  little,  both  from  exertion  and  ex- 
citement, Pen  leaped  the  fence  and  came  up 
to  the  side  of  the  buggy. 

"Mr.  Starbird,"  he  said,  "if  that  job  is  still 
open,  I — I  think  I'll  take  it — if  you'll  give  it  to 


me." 


The  man,  looking  at  him  closely,  saw  deter- 
mination stamped  on  his  countenance. 

"Why,  that's  all  right,"  he  said.  "You 
could  have  the  job;  but  what  about  your  grand- 
father Walker?  He  doesn't  seem  to  want  you 
to  leave." 


THE  FLAG  165 

"I  know.  But  my  mother's  willing.  And 
I'll  make  it  up  to  Grandpa  Walker  some  way. 
I  can't  stay  here,  Mr.  Starbird;  and — I'm  not 
going  to.  They're  good  enough  to  me  here. 
I've  no  complaint  to  make.  But — I  want  a 
real  job  and  a  fair  chance." 

He  paused,  out  of  breath.  The  intensity 
of  his  desire,  and  the  fixedness  of  his  purpose 
were  so  sharply  manifest  that  the  man  in  the 
wagon  did  not,  for  the  moment,  reply.  He 
placed  his  whip  slowly  in  its  socket,  and  seemed 
lost  in  thought.  At  last  he  said : 

"Henry  Cobb  has  been  telling  me  about 
you.  He  gives  you  a  very  good  name." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  added : 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  If  you'll  give  the 
old  gentleman  fair  notice — and  not  sneak  away 
from  him  like  a  vagabond — I  won't  harbor  any 
runaways — why,  I'll  see  that  you  get  the  job." 

Pen  drew  a  long  breath,  and  his  face  lighted 
up  with  pleasure. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Starbird!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Thank  you  very  much.  When  may  I  come?" 

"Well,  let's  see.  To-day's  Wednesday. 
Suppose  you  report  for  duty  next  Monday." 


166  THE  FLAG 

"All  right!  I'll  be  there.  I'll  leave  here 
Monday  morning.  I'll  speak  to  Grandpa 
Walker  to-night." 

"Very  well.  See  you  Monday.  Good- 
by!" 

"Good-by!" 

Robert  Starbird  chirruped  to  his  horse, 
started  on,  and  was  soon  lost  to  sight  around  a 
bend  in  the  road. 

And  Pen  strode  back  across  the  field, 
prouder  and  happier  than  he  had  ever  been 
before  in  all  his  life. 

But  he  still  had  Grandpa  Walker  to  settle 
with. 

At  supper  time,  on  the  evening  after  his  talk 
with  Robert  Starbird,  Pen  had  no  opportunity 
to  inform  his  grandfather  of  the  success  of  his 
application  for  employment.  For,  almost  as 
soon  as  he  left  the  table,  Grandpa  Walker  got 
his  hat  and  started  down  to  the  store  to  discuss 
politics  and  statecraft  with  his  loquacious 
neighbors.  But  Pen  felt  that  his  grandfather 
should  know,  that  night,  of  the  arrangement 
he  had  made  for  employment,  and  so,  after  his 
evening  chores  were  done,  he  went  down  to  the 


THE  FLAG  167 

gate  at  the  roadside  to  wait  for  the  old  man  to 
come  home. 

The  air  was  as  balmy  as  though  it  had  been 
an  evening  in  June.  Somewhere  in  the  trees 
by  the  fence  a  pair  of  wakeful  birds  was  chirp- 
ing. From  the  swamp  below  the  hill  came  the 
hoarse  croaking  of  bull-frogs.  Above  the 
summit  of  the  wooded  slope  that  lay  toward 
Chestnut  Hill  the  full  moon  was  climbing,  and, 
aslant  the  road,  the  maples  cast  long  shadows 
toward  the  west. 

To  Pen,  as  he  stood  there  waiting,  came  his 
mother.  A  wrap  was  around  her  shoulders, 
and  a  light  scarf  partly  covered  her  head.  She 
had  finished  her  evening  work  and  had  come 
out  to  find  him. 

"Are  you  waiting  for  grandpa?"  she  asked; 
though  she  knew  without  asking,  that  he 
was. 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply.  "I  want  to  see  him 
about  leaving.  I  had  a  talk  with  Mr.  Starbird 
this  afternoon,  in  the  road,  and  he's  given  me 
the  job  he  spoke  about.  I  wasn't  going  to  tell 
you  until  after  I'd  seen  grandpa,  and  the 
trouble  was  all  over." 


168  THE  FLAG 

"You  dear  boy!  And  if  grandpa  objects 
to  your  going?" 

"Well,  I — I  think  I'll  go  anyway.  Look 
here,  mother,"  he  continued,  hastily;  "I  don't 
want  to  be  mean  nor  anything  like  that;  and 
grandpa's  been  kind  to  me;  but,  mother — I 
can't  stay  here.  Don't  you  see  I  can't  stay 
here?" 

He  held  his  arms  out  to  her  appealingly,  and 
she  took  them  and  put  them  about  her  neck. 

"I  know,  dear,"  she  said;  "I  know.  And 
grandfather  must  let  you  go.  I  shall  die  of 
loneliness,  but — you  must  have  a  chance." 

"Thank  you,  mother!  And  as  soon  as  I  can 
earn  enough  you  shall  come  to  live  with  me." 

"I  shall  come  anyway  before  very  long, 
dearie.  I  worked  for  other  people  before  I 
was  married.  I  can  do  it  again." 

She  laughed  a  little,  but  on  her  cheeks  tears 
glistened  in  the  moonlight. 

Then,  suddenly,  they  were  aware  that 
Grandpa  Walker  was  approaching  them.  He 
was  coming  up  the  road,  talking  to  himself  as 
was  his  custom  when  alone,  especially  if  his 
mind  was  ill  at  ease.  And  his  mind  was  not 


THE  FLAG  169 

wholly  at  ease  to-night.  The  readiness  with 
which  Pen  had,  that  day,  accepted  a  suggestion 
of  employment  elsewhere,  had  given  him  some- 
thing of  a  turn.  He  could  not  contemplate, 
with  serenity,  the  prospect  of  resuming  the  bur- 
dens of  which  his  grandson  had,  for  the  last 
two  months,  relieved  him.  To  become  again 
a  "hewer  of  wood  and  drawer  of  water"  for  his 
family  was  a  prospect  not  wholly  to  his  liking. 
He  became  suddenly  aware  that  two  people 
were  standing  at  his  gate  in  the  moonlight. 
He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  to  look 
at  them  inquiringly. 

"It's  I,  father!"  his  daughter  called  out  to 
him.  "Pen  and  I.  We've  been  waiting  for 
you." 

"Eh  ?    Waitin'  for  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  Pen  has  something  he  wants  to  say  to 

you." 

The  old  man  crossed  over  to  the  roadside 
fence  and  leaned  on  it.  The  announce- 
ment was  ominous.  He  looked  sharply  at 
Pen. 

"Well,"  he  said.     "I'm  listenin'." 
"Grandpa,"  began  Pen,  "I  want  you  to  be 


170  THE  FLAG 

willing  that  I  should  take  that  job  that  Mr. 
Starbird  spoke  about  to-day." 

"So,  that's  it,  is  it?  Ye've  got  the  rovin' 
bee  a  buzzin'  in  your  head,  have  ye?  Don't  ye 
know  't  'a  rollin'  stone  gethers  no  moss'?" 

"Well,  grandpa,  I'm  not  contented  here. 
Not  but  what  you're  good  enough  to  me,  and 
all  that,  but  I'm  unhappy  here.  And  I  saw 
Mr.  Starbird  again  this  afternoon,  and  he  said 
I  could  have  that  job." 

"Think  a  job  in  a  mill's  better'n  a  job  on  a 
farm?" 

"I  think  it  is  for  me,  grandpa." 

"Work  too  hard  for  ye  here?" 

"Why,  I'm  not  complaining  about  the  work 
being  hard.  It's  just  because  farm  work  does 
not  suit  me." 

"Don't  suit  most  folks  'at  ain't  inclined  to 
dig  into  it." 

Then  Pen's  mother  spoke  up. 

"Now,  father,"  she  said,  "you  know  Pen's 
done  a  man's  work  since  he's  been  here,  and 
he's  never  whimpered  about  it.  And  it  isn't 
quite  fair  for  you  to  insinuate  that  he's  been 
lazy." 


THE  FLAG  171 

"I  ain't  insinuatin'  nothin',"  replied  the  old 
man,  doggedly.  "I  ain't  findin'  no  fault  with 
what  he's  done  sence  he's  been  here;  I'm  just 
gittin'  at  what  he  thinks  he's  goin'  to  do."  He 
turned  again  to  Pen.  "Made  up  yer  mind  to 
go,  hev  ye?" 

"Yes,  grandpa." 

"When?" 

"Next  Monday  morning." 

"Wuther  I'm  willin'  or  no?" 

"I  want  you  to  be  willing." 

"I  say,  wuther  I'm  willin'  or  no?" 

In  the  moonlight  the  old  man's  face  bore  a 
look  of  severity  that  augured  ill  for  any  happy 
completion  to  Pen's  plan.  A  direct  question 
had  been  asked,  and  it  called  for  a  direct  an- 
swer. And  with  the  answer  would  come  the 
clash  of  wills.  Pen  felt  it  coming,  and,  al- 
though he  was  apprehensive  to  the  verge  of 
alarm,  he  braced  himself  to  meet  it  calmly. 
His  answer  was  frank,  and  direct. 

"Yes,  grandpa." 

"Well,  I'm  willin'." 

"Why,  grandpa!" 

"Father!  you  old  dear!"  from  Pen's  mother. 


172  THE  FLAG 

"I  say  I'm  willin',"  repeated  the  old  man. 
"I  bed  hoped  't  Pen'd  stay  here  to  hum  an'  help 
me  out  with  the  farm  work.  I  ain't  so  soople 
as  I  use  to  be.  An'  Mirandy's  man's  got  a 
stiddy  job  a-teamin'.  An'  the  boy  seemed  to 
take  to  the  work  natural,  and  I  thought  he 
liked  it,  and  I  rested  easy  and  took  my  comfort 
till  Robert  Starbird  put  that  notion  in  his  head 
to-day.  Sence  then  I  ain't  had  no  hope." 

"I'm  sorry  to  leave  you,  grandpa,  and  it's 
awfully  good  of  you  to  let  me  go,  and  you 
know  I  wouldn't  go  if  I  thought  I  could  pos- 
sibly stay  and  be  contented." 

"I  understand.  It's  the  same  with  most 
young  fellers.  They  see  suthin'  better  away 
from  hum.  And  I  ain't  willin'  to  stand  in  the 
way  o'  no  young  feller  that  thinks  he  can  bet- 
ter himself  some'eres  else.  When  I  was  fif- 
teen I  wanted  to  go  down  to  Chestnut  Hill  and 
work  in  Sampson's  planin'  factory;  but  my 
father  wouldn't  let  me.  Consekence  is  I  never 
got  spunk  enough  agin  to  leave  the  farm.  So 
I  ain't  goin'  to  stand  in  nobody  else's  way, 
you  can  go  Monday  mornin*  or  any  other 
mornin',  and  I'll  just  say  God  bless  ye,  an' 


THE  FLAG  173 

good  luck  to  ye,  an'  start  in  agin  on  the  chores." 
Then  Pen's  mother,  like  a  girl  still  in  her 
sympathies  and  impulses,  flung  her  arms 
around  her  father's  neck,  and  hugged  him  till 
he  was  positively  obliged  to  use  force  to  re- 
lease himself.  And  they  all  walked  up  the 
path  together  in  the  moonlight,  and  entered 
the  house  and  told  Grandma  Walker  and  Aunt 
Miranda  of  Pen's  contemplated  departure,  to 
which  Grandpa  Walker,  with  martyrlike  coun- 
tenance, added  the  story  of  his  own  unhappy 
prospect. 

When  Monday  morning  came  Pen  was  up 
long  before  his  usual  hour  for  rising.  He  did 
all  the  chores,  picked  up  a  dozen  odds  and  ends, 
and  left  everything  ship-shape  for  his  grand- 
father who  was  now  to  succeed  him  in  doing  the 
morning  work.  Then  he  changed  his  clothes, 
packed  his  suit-case  and  came  down  to  break- 
fast. Grandpa  Walker  had  offered  to  take 
him  into  town  with  Old  Charlie,  but  Pen  had 
learned,  the  night  before,  that  Henry  Cobb 
was  going  down  to  Chestnut  Hill  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  when  Mr.  Cobb  heard  that  Pen  also 
was  going,  he  gave  him  an  invitation  to  ride 


174  THE  FLAG 

with  him.  He  and  the  boy  had  become  fast 
friends  during  Pen's  sojourn  at  Cobb's  Cor- 
ners, and  both  of  them  anticipated,  with  pleas- 
ure, the  ride  into  town. 

After  breakfast  Grandpa  Walker  lighted 
his  pipe  and  put  on  his  hat  but  he  did  not  go  to 
the  store,  as  had  been  his  custom;  he  stayed 
to  say  good-by  to  Pen,  and  to  bid  him  God- 
speed, as  he  had  said  he  would,  and  to  tell  him 
that  when  he  lacked  for  work,  or  wanted  a 
home,  there  was  a  latch-string  at  Cobb's  Cor- 
ners that  was  always  hanging  out  for  him.  He 
did  more  than  that.  He  shoved  into  Pen's 
hands  enough  money  to  pay  for  a  few  weeks' 
board  at  Lowbridge,  and  told  him  that  if  he 
needed  more,  to  write  and  ask  for  it. 

"It's  comin*  to  ye,"  he  said,  when  Pen  pro- 
tested. "Ye  ain't  had  nothin'  sence  ye  been 
here,  and  I  kind  o'  calculate  ye've  earned  it." 

Pen's  mother  went  with  him  to  the  gate  to 
wait  for  Henry  Cobb  to  come  along;  and  when 
they  saw  Mr.  Cobb  driving  down  the  hill  to- 
ward them,  she  kissed  Pen  good-by,  adjured 
him  to  be  watchful  of  his  health,  and  to  write 
frequently  to  her,  and  then  went  back  up  the 


THE  FLAG  175 

path  toward  the  house  she  could  not  see  for  the 
tears  that  filled  her  eyes. 

Henry  Cobb  drove  a  smart  horse,  and  a 
buggy  that  was  spick  and  span,  and  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  ride  with  him.  He  pulled  up  at 
the  gate  with  a  flourish,  and  told  Pen  to  put 
his  suit-case  under  the  seat,  and  to  jump  in. 

It  was  not  until  after  they  had  left  the  Cor- 
ners some  distance  behind  them  that  the  object 
of  Pen's  journey  was  mentioned.  Then 
Henry  Cobb  asked: 

"How  does  the  old  gentleman  like  your  leav- 
ing?" 

"I  don't  think  he  likes  it  very  well,"  was  the 
reply.  "But  he's  been  lovely  about  it.  He 
gave  me  some  money  and  his  blessing." 

"You  don't  say  so!" 

Henry  Cobb  stared  at  the  boy  in  astonish- 
ment. It  was  not  an  unheard  of  thing  for 
Grandpa  Walker  to  give  his  blessing;  but  that 
he  should  give  money  besides,  was,  to  say  the 
least,  unusual. 

"Yes,"  replied  Pen,  "he  couldn't  have 
treated  me  better  if  I'd  lived  with  him  always." 

Mr.  Cobb  cast  a  contemplative  eye  on  the 


176  THE  FLAG 

landscape,  and,  for  a  full  minute,  he  was  si- 
lent. Then  he  turned  again  to  Pen. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  curious  or  anything,"  he 
said ;  "but  would  you  mind  telling  me  how  much 
money  the  old  gentleman  gave  you?" 

"Not  at  all,"  was  the  prompt  reply.  "He 
gave  me  eighteen  dollars." 

"Good  for  him!"  exclaimed  the  man.  "He's 
got  more  good  stuff  in  him  than  I  gave  him 
credit  for.  I  was  afraid  he  might  have  given 
you  only  a  dollar  or  two,  and  I  was  going  to 
lend  you  a  little  to  help  you  out.  I  will  yet 
if  you  need  it.  I  will  any  time  you  need  it." 

Henry  Cobb  was  not  prodigal  with  his 
money,  but  he  was  kind-hearted,  and  he  had 
seen  enough  of  Pen  to  feel  that  he  was  taking 
no  risk. 

"You're  very  kind,"  replied  the  boy,  "but 
grandpa's  money  will  last  me  a  good  while,  and 
I  shall  get  wages  enough  to  keep  me  comfor- 
tably, and  I  shall  not  need  any  more." 

After  a  while  Mr.  Cobb's  thoughts  turned 
again  to  Grandpa  Walker. 

"He'll  miss  you  terribly,"  he  said  to  Pen. 
"He  hasn't  had  so  easy  a  time  in  all  his  life  be- 


THE  FLAG  177 

fore  as  he's  had  this  spring,  with  you  to  do  all 
the  farm  chores  and  help  around  the  house. 
It'll  be  like  pulling  teeth  for  him  to  get  into 
harness  again." 

Henry  Cobb  gave  a  little  chuckle.  He 
knew  how  fond  Grandpa  Walker  was  of  com- 
fortable ease. 

"Well,"  replied  Pen,  "I'm  sorry  to  go,  and 
leave  him  with  all  the  work  to  do;  but  you 
know  how  it  is,  Mr.  Cobb." 

"Yes,  I  know;  I  know.  And  you're  going 
with  splendid  people.  I've  known  the  Star- 
birds  all  my  life.  None  better  in  the  coun- 
try." 

They  had  reached  the  summit  of  the  eleva- 
tion overlooking  the  valley  that  holds  Chestnut 
Hill.  Spring  lay  all  about  them  in  a  riot  of 
fresh  green.  The  world,  to  boyish  eyes,  had 
never  before  looked  so  fair,  nor  had  the  present 
ever  before  been  filled  with  brighter  promises 
for  the  future.  But  the  morning  ride,  delight- 
ful as  it  had  been,  was  drawing  to  an  end. 

Coming  from  Cobb's  Corners  into  Chestnut 
Hill  you  go  down  the  Main  street  past  Ban- 
nerhall.  Pen  looked  as  he  went  by,  but  he 


178  THE  FLAG 

saw  no  one  there.  The  lawn  was  rich  with  a 
carpet  of  fresh,  young  grass,  the  crocus  beds 
and  the  tulip  plot  were  ablaze  with  color,  and 
the  swelling  buds  that  crowned  the  maples 
with  a  haze  and  halo  of  elusive  pink  foretold 
the  luxury  of  summer  foliage.  But  no  human 
being  was  in  sight.  The  street  looked  strange 
to  Pen  as  they  drove  along;  as  strange  as 
though  he  had  been  away  two  years  instead  of 
two  months.  They  stopped  in  front  of  the 
post-office,  and  he  remained  in  the  wagon  and 
minded  the  horse  while  Henry  Cobb  went  into 
a  hardware  store  near  by.  People  passed  back 
and  forth,  and  some  of  them  looked  at  him  and 
said  "good-morning,"  in  a  distant  way,  as 
though  it  were  an  effort  for  them  to  speak  to 
him.  He  knew  the  cause  of  their  indifference 
and  he  did  not  resent  it,  though  it  cut  him 
deeply.  Last  winter  it  would  have  been  dif- 
ferent. But  last  winter  he  was  the  grandson 
of  Colonel  Richard  Butler,  and  lived  with  that 
old  patriot  amid  the  memories  and  luxuries  of 
Bannerhall.  To-day  he  was  the  grandson  of 
Enos  Walker,  of  Cobb's  Corners,  leaving  the 
farm  to  seek  a  petty  job  in  a  mill,  discredited 


THE  FLAG  179 

in  the  eyes  of  the  community  because  of  his 
disloyalty  to  his  country's  flag.  He  was  mus- 
ing on  these  things  when  some  one  called  to 
him  from  the  sidewalk.  It  was  Aunt  Mil- 
licent. 

"Pen  Butler!"  she  cried,  "get  right  down 
here  and  kiss  me." 

Pen  did  her  bidding. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  here?" 
she  continued. 

"I'm  on  my  way  to  Lowbridge,"  he  said. 
"I  have  a  job  up  there  in  the  Starbird  woolen 
mills,  as  bobbin-boy." 

"Well,  for  goodness  sake !  Who  would  have 
thought  it?  Pen  Butler  going  to  work  as  a 
bobbin-bojM  And  Lowbridge  is  fourteen 
miles  away,  and  we  shall  never  see  you  again." 

Pen  comforted  her  as  best  he  could,  and  ex- 
plained his  reasons  for  going,  and  then  he  asked 
after  the  health  of  his  grandfather  Butler. 

"Don't  ask  me,"  she  said  disconsolately. 
"He's  grieving  himself  into  his  grave  about 
you.  But  he  doesn't  say  a  word,  and  he  won't 
let  me  say  a  word.  Oh,  dear!" 

Then  Henry  Cobb  came  out  and  greeted 


180  THE  FLAG 

Aunt  Millicent,  and,  after  a  few  more  inquiries 
and  admonitions,  she  kissed  Pen  good-by  and 
went  on  her  way. 

Mr.  Cobb  was  going  on  down  to  Chestnut 
Valley,  but,  as  the  train  to  Lowbridge  did  not 
leave  until  afternoon,  Pen  said  he  would  go 
down  later.  So  he  was  left  on  the  sidewalk 
there  alone.  He  did  not  quite  know  what  to 
do  with  himself.  The  boys  were,  doubtless,  all 
in  school.  He  walked  up  the  street  a  little 
way,  and  then  he  walked  back  again.  He  had 
no  reason  for  entering  any  of  the  stores,  and 
no  desire  to  do  so.  There  was  really  no  place 
for  him  to  go.  Finally  he  decided  that  he 
would  go  down  to  the  Valley  and  wait  there 
for  the  train.  So  he  started  on  down  the  hill. 
People  whom  he  met,  acquaintances  of  the  old 
days,  looked  at  him  askance,  spoke  to  him  in- 
differently, or  ignored  him  altogether.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  like  a  stranger  in 
an  alien  land. 

As  he  passed  by  the  school-house  a  boy  whom 
he  did  not  know  was  lingering  about  the  steps. 
Otherwise  there  was  no  one  in  sight. 

Then,  suddenly,  there  burst  upon  his  view 


THE  FLAG  181 

a  sight  for  which  he  was  not  prepared.  In  the 
yard  on  the  lower  side  of  the  school-house,  the 
yard  through  which  he  and  his  victorious  troops 
had  driven  the  retreating  enemy  at  the  battle 
of  Chestnut  Hill,  a  flag-staff  was  standing; 
tall,  straight,  symmetrical,  and  from  its  summit 
floated  the  Star-Spangled  Banner;  the  very 
banner  that  he  had  trodden  under  his  feet  that 
February  day.  It  was  as  though  some  one  had 
struck  him  on  the  breast  with  an  ice-cold  hand. 
He  gasped  and  stood  still,  his  eyes  fixed  im- 
movably on  the  flag.  Then  something  stirred 
within  him,  a  strange  impulse  that  ran  the 
quick  gamut  of  his  nerves;  and  when  he  came 
to  himself  he  was  standing  in  the  street,  with 
head  bared  and  bowed,  and  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  Like  Saul  of  Tarsus  he  had  been 
stricken  in  the  way,  and  ever  afterward,  when- 
ever and  wherever  he  saw  his  country's  flag, 
his  soul  responded  to  the  sight,  and  thrilled 
with  memories  of  that  April  day  when  first 
he  discovered  that  rare  quality  of  patriot- 
ism that  had  hitherto  lain  dormant  in  his 
breast. 

So  he  walked  on  down  to  the  railroad  sta- 


182  THE  FLAG 

tion  in  Chestnut  Valley,  and  went  into  the 
waiting-room  and  sat  down. 

It  was  very  lonely  there  and  it  was  very  tire- 
some waiting  for  the  train. 

At  noon  he  went  out  to  a  bakery  and  bought 
for  himself  a  light  luncheon.  As  he  was  re- 
turning to  the  depot  he  came  suddenly  upon 
Aleck  Sands,  who  had  had  his  dinner  and  was 
starting  back  to  school.  There  was  no  time 
for  either  boy  to  consider  what  kind  of  greet- 
ing he  should  give  to  the  other.  They  were 
face  to  face  before  either  of  them  realized  it. 
As  for  Pen,  he  bore  no  resentment  now,  to- 
ward any  one.  His  heart  had  been  wrung  dry 
from  that  feeling  through  two  months  of  labor 
and  of  contemplation.  So,  when  the  first 
shock  of  surprise  was  over,  he  held  out  his 
hand. 

"Let's  be  friends,  Aleck,"  he  said,  "and  for- 
get what's  gone  by." 

"I'm  not  willing,"  was  the  reply,  "to  be 
friends  with  any  one  who's  done  what  you've 
done."  And  he  made  a  wide  detour  around 
the  astonished  boy,  and  marched  off  up  the 
hill. 


THE  FLAG  183 

From  that  moment  until  the  train  came  and 
he  boarded  it,  Pen  could  never  afterward  re- 
member what  happened.  His  mind  was  in  a 
tumult.  Would  the  cruel  echo  of  one  minute 
of  inconsiderate  folly  on  a  February  day,  keep 
sounding  in  his  ears  and  hammering  at  his 
heart  so  long  as  he  should  live? 

It  was  mid-afternoon  when  Pen  reached 
Lowbridge,  and  he  went  at  once  to  the  Star- 
bird  mill  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  He 
caught  sight  of  Robert  Starbird  in  the  mill- 
yard,  and  went  over  to  him.  The  man  did  not 
at  first  recognize  him. 

"I'm  Penfield  Butler,"  said  the  boy,  "with 
whom  you  were  talking  last  week." 

"Oh,  yes.  Now  I  know  you.  You  look  a 
little  different,  some  way.  I've  been  watching 
out  for  you.  How  did  you  make  out  with  your 
Grandpa  Walker?" 

"Well,  Grandpa  Walker  found  it  a  little 
hard  to  take  up  the  work  I'd  been  doing,  but 
he  was  quite  willing  I  should  come,  and  helped 
me  very  much." 

"I  see."  An  amused  twinkle  came  into  the 
man's  eyes;  just  such  a  twinkle  as  had  come 


184  THE  FLAG 

into  the  eyes  of  Henry  Cobb  that  morning  on 
the  way  to  Chestnut  Hill. 

"Well,"  he  added,  "I  guess  it's  all  right. 
Come  over  to  the  office.  We'll  see  what  we 
can  do  for  you." 

They  crossed  the  mill-yard  and  entered  the 
office.  An  elderly,  benevolent  looking  man 
with  white  side-whiskers,  wearing  a  Grand 
Army  button  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  was 
seated  at  a  table,  writing.  Three  or  four 
clerks  were  busy  at  their  desks,  and  a  girl  was 
working  at  a  type-writer  in  a  remote  corner 
of  the  room. 

"Major  Starbird,"  said  the  man  who  had 
brought  Pen  in,  "this  is  the  boy  whom  I  told 
you  last  week  I  had  hired  as  a  bobbin-boy. 
He's  a  grandson  of  Enos  Walker  out  at  Cobb's 
Corners." 

The  man  with  white  side-whiskers  laid  down 
his  pen,  removed  his  glasses,  and  looked  up 
scrutinizingly  at  Pen. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  know  Mr.  Walker." 

"He  is  also,"  added  Robert  Starbird,  "a 
grandson  of  Colonel  Richard  Butler  at  Chest- 
nut Hill." 


THE  FLAG  185 

"Indeed!  Colonel  Butler  is  a  warm  friend 
of  mine.  I  was  not  aware  that — is  your  name 
Penfield  Butler?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Pen.  Something  in  the 
man's  changed  tone  of  voice  sent  a  sudden  fear 
to  his  heart. 

"Are  you  the  boy  who  is  said  to  have  mis- 
treated the  American  flag  on  the  school 
grounds  at  Chestnut  Hill?" 

"I — suppose  I  am.     Yes,  sir." 

Pen's  heart  was  now  in  his  shoes.  The  man 
with  white  side-whiskers  raked  him  from  head 
to  foot  with  a  look  that  boded  no  good.  He 
turned  to  his  nephew. 

"I've  heard  of  that  incident,"  he  said.  "I 
do  not  think  we  want  this  young  man  in  our 
employ." 

Robert  Starbird  looked  first  at  his  uncle  and 
then  at  Pen.  It  was  plain  that  he  was  puz- 
zled. It  was  equally  plain  that  he  was  disap- 
pointed. 

"I  didn't  know  about  this,"  he  said.  "I'm 
sorry  if  it's  anything  that  necessitates  our  de- 
priving him  of  the  job.  Penfield,  suppose  you 
retire  to  the  waiting-room  for  a  few  minutes. 


186  THE  FLAG 

I'll  talk  this  matter  over  with  Major  Starbird." 

So  Pen,  with  the  ghosts  of  his  misdeeds 
haunting  and  harassing  him,  and  a  burden  of 
disappointment,  too  heavy  for  any  boy  to  bear, 
weighing  him  down,  retired  to  the  waiting- 
room.  For  the  first  time  since  his  act  of  dis- 
loyalty he  felt  that  his  punishment  was  greater 
than  he  deserved.  Not  that  he  bore  resent- 
ment now  against  any  person,  but  he  believed 
the  retribution  that  was  following  him  was  un- 
justly proportioned  to  the  gravity  of  his  of- 
fense. And  if  Major  Starbird  refused  to  re- 
ceive him,  what  could  he  do  then? 

In  the  midst  of  these  cruel  forebodings  he 
heard  his  name  called,  and  he  went  back  into 
the  office. 

Major  Starbird's  look  was  still  keen,  and  his 
voice  was  still  forbidding. 

"I  do  not  want,"  he  said,  "to  be  too  hasty  in 
my  judgments.  My  nephew  tells  me  that 
Henry  Cobb  has  given  you  an  excellent  rec- 
ommendation, and  we  place  great  reliance  on 
Mr.  Cobb's  opinion.  It  may  be  that  your  of- 
fense has  been  exaggerated,  or  that  you  have 
some  explanation  which  will  mitigate  it.  If 


THE  FLAG  187 

you  have  any  excuse  to  offer  I  shall  be  glad  to 
hear  it." 

"I  don't  think,"  replied  Pen  frankly,  "that 
there  was  any  excuse  for  doing  what  I  did. 
Only — it  seems  to  me — I've  suffered  enough 
for  it.  And  I  never — never  had  anything 
against  the  flag." 

He  was  so  earnest,  and  his  voice  was  so 
tremulous  with  emotion,  that  the  heart  of  the 
old  soldier  could  not  help  but  be  stirred  with 
pity. 

"I  have  fought  for  my  country,"  he  said, 
"and  I  reverence  her  flag.  And  I  cannot  have, 
in  my  employ,  any  one  who  is  disloyal  to  it." 

"I  am  not  disloyal  to  it,  sir.     I — I  love  it." 

"Would  you  be  willing  to  die  for  it,  as  I 
have  been?" 

"I  would  welcome  the  chance,  sir." 

Major  Starbird  turned  to  his  nephew. 

"I  think  we  may  trust  him,"  he  said.  "He 
has  good  blood  in  his  veins,  and  he  ought  to 
develop  into  a  loyal  citizen." 

Pen  said:  "Thank  you!"  But  he  said  it 
with  a  gulp  in  his  throat.  The  reaction  had 
quite  unnerved  him. 


188  THE  FLAG 

"I  am  sure,"  replied  Robert  Starbird,  "that 
we  shall  make  no  mistake.  Penfield,  suppose 
you  come  with  me.  I  will  introduce  you  to  the 
foreman  of  the  weaving-room.  He  may  be 
able  to  take  you  on  at  once." 

So  Pen,  with  tears  of  gratitude  in  his  eyes, 
followed  his  guide  and  friend.  They  went 
through  the  store-room  between  great  piles  of 
blankets,  through  the  wool-room  filled  with  big 
bales  of  fleece,  and  up-stairs  into  the  weaving- 
room  amid  the  click  and  clatter  and  roar  of 
three  score  busy  and  intricate  looms.  Pen  was 
introduced  to  the  foreman,  and  his  duties  as 
bobbin-boy  were  explained  to  him. 

"It's  easy  enough,"  said  the  foreman,  "if  you 
only  pay  attention  to  your  work.  You  simply 
have  to  take  the  bobbins  in  these  little  running- 
boxes  to  the  looms  as  the  weavers  call  for  them 
and  give  you  their  numbers.  Perhaps  you  had 
better  stay  here  this  afternoon  and  let  Dan 
Larew  show  you  how.  I'll  give  him  a  loom 
to-morrow  morning,  and  you  can  take  his 
place." 

So  Pen  stayed.  And  when  the  mills  were 
shut  down  for  the  day,  when  the  big  wheels 


THE  FLAG  189 

stopped,  and  the  cylinders  were  still,  and  the 
clatter  of  a  thousand  working  metal  fingers 
ceased,  and  the  voices  of  the  mill  girls  were  no 
longer  drowned  by  the  rattle  and  roar  of  mov- 
ing machinery,  he  went  with  Dan  to  his  home, 
a  half  mile  away,  where  he  found  a  good  board- 
ing-place. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  next  morning  he  was  at 
the  mill,  and,  at  the  end  of  his  first  day's  real 
work  for  real  wages,  he  went  to  his  new  home, 
tired  indeed,  but  happier  than  he  had  ever  been 
before  in  all  his  life. 

So  the  days  went  by;  and  spring  blossomed 
into  summer,  and  summer  melted  into  autumn, 
and  winter  came  again  and  dropped  her  cover- 
ing of  snow  upon  the  landscape,  whiter  and 
softer  than  any  fleece  that  was  ever  scoured  or 
picked  or  carded  at  the  Starbird  mills.  And 
then  Pen  had  a  great  joy.  His  mother  came 
to  Lowbridge  to  live  with  him.  Death  had 
kindly  released  Grandma  Walker  from  her 
long  suffering,  and  there  was  no  longer  any 
need  for  his  mother  to  stay  on  the  little  farm 
at  Cobb's  Corners.  She  was  an  expert  seam- 
stress and  she  found  more  work  in  the  town 


190  THE  FLAG 

than  she  could  do.  And  the  very  day  on  which 
she  came — Major  Starbird  knew  that  she  was 
coming — Pen  was  promoted  to  a  loom.  One 
thing  only  remained  to  cloud  his  happiness. 
He  was  still  estranged  from  the  dear,  tender- 
hearted, but  stubborn  old  patriot  at  Chestnut 
Hill. 

With  only  his  daughter  to  comfort  him,  the 
old  man  lived  his  lonely  life,  grieving  silently, 
ever  more  and  more,  at  the  fate  which  separated 
him  from  this  brave  scion  of  his  race,  aging  as 
only  the  sorrowing  can  age,  yet,  with  a  stub- 
born pride,  and  an  unyielding  purpose,  refus- 
ing to  make  the  first  advance  toward  a  recon- 
ciliation. 


CHAPTER  IX 

PEN  made  good  use  of  his  leisure  time  at 
Lowbridge.  There  was  no  night  school  there, 
but  the  courses  of  a  correspondence  school 
were  available,  and  through  that  medium  he 
learned  much,  not  only  of  that  which  pertained 
to  his  calling  as  a  textile  worker,  but  of  that 
also  which  pertained  to  general  science  and 
broad  culture.  Histoiy  had  a  special  fascina- 
tion for  him;  the  theory  of  government,  the 
struggles  of  the  peoples  of  the  old  world  to- 
ward light  and  liberty.  The  working  out  of 
the  idea  of  democracy  in  a  country  like  Eng- 
land which  still  retained  its  monarchical  form 
and  much  of  its  aristocratic  flavor,  was  a  theme 
on  which  he  dwelt  with  particular  pleasure. 
Back  somewhere  in  the  line  of  descent  his  pa- 
ternal ancestors  had  been  of  English  blood,  and 
he  was  proud  of  the  heroism,  the  spirit  and  the 
energy  which  had  made  Great  Britain  one  of 
the  mighty  nations  of  the  earth. 


192  THE  FLAG 

To  France  also,  fighting  and  forging  her 
way,  often  through  great  tribulation,  into  the 
family  of  democracies,  he  gave  almost  un- 
stinted praise.  Always  splendid  and  chivalric, 
whether  as  monarchy,  empire  or  republic,  he 
felt  that  if  he  were  to-day  a  soldier  he  would, 
next  to  his  own  beautiful  Star  Spangled  Ban- 
ner, rather  fight  and  die  under  the  tri-color  of 
France  than  under  the  flag  of  any  other  na- 
tion. 

But  of  course  it  was  to  the  study  and  con- 
templation of  his  own  beloved  country  that  he 
gave  most  of  the  time  he  had  for  reading  and 
research.  He  delved  deeply  into  her  history, 
he  examined  her  constitution  and  her  laws,  he 
put  himself  in  touch  with  the  spirit  of  her  or- 
ganized institutions,  and  with  the  fundamental 
ideas,  carefully  worked  out,  that  had  made  her 
free  and  prosperous  and  great.  And  by  and 
by  he  came  to  realize,  in  a  way  that  he  had 
never  done  before,  what  it  meant  to  all  her 
citizens,  and  especially  what  it  meant  to  him, 
Penfield  Butler,  to  have  a  country  such  as 
this.  He  thought  of  her  in  those  days  not 
only  as  a  thing  of  vast  territorial  limit  and  of 


THE  FLAG  193 

splendid  resources  of  power  and  wealth  and 
intellect,  not  only  as  a  mighty  machine  for  hu- 
mane and  just  government,  but  he  thought  of 
her  also  as  a  beloved  and  beautiful  personality, 
claiming  and  deserving  affection  and  fealty 
from  all  her  children.  And  he  never  saw  the 
flag,  he  never  thought  of  it,  he  never  dreamed 
of  it,  that  it  did  not  arouse  in  him  the  same  ten- 
der and  reverent  feeling,  the  same  lofty  in- 
spiration he  had  felt  that  day  when  he  first  saw 
it  floating  from  its  staff  against  a  back-ground 
of  clear  blue  sky  on  the  school-house  lawn  at 
Chestnut  Hill. 

He  held  himself  closely  to  his  tasks.  Only 
twice  since  he  came  away  had  he  gone  back 
with  his  mother  for  a  holiday  visit  at  Cobb's 
Corners.  Grandpa  Walker  had  a  hearty 
handshake  for  him,  and  an  affectionate  greet- 
ing. The  boy  was  forging  ahead  in  his  call- 
ing, was  developing  into  a  fine  specimen  of 
physical  young  manhood,  and  the  old  man  was 
proud  of  him.  But  he  did  not  hesitate  to  re- 
mind him  that  if  a  day  of  adversity  should 
come  the  latch-string  of  the  old  house  was  still 
out,  and  he  would  always  be  as  welcome  there 


194  THE  FLAG 

as  he  was  on  that  winter  day  when  he  had  come 
to  them  as  an  exile  from  Bannerhall. 

One  Memorial  Day,  as  Pen  stood  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  cemetery  bridge  watching  the 
procession  of  those  going  in  to  do  honor  to  the 
patriotic  dead,  he  was  especially  impressed 
with  the  fine  appearance  of  the  local  company 
of  the  National  Guard  which  was  acting  as  an 
escort  to  the  veterans  of  the  Grand  Army  post. 
The  young  men  composing  the  company  were 
dressed  in  khaki,  handled  their  rifles  with  ease 
and  accuracy,  and  marched  with  a  soldierly 
bearing  and  precision  that  were  admirable. 
It  occurred  to  Pen  that  it  might  be  advisable 
for  him  to  join  this  body  of  citizen  soldiery 
provided  he  had  the  necessary  qualifications 
and  could  be  admitted  to  membership.  It  was 
not  so  much  the  show  and  glamour  of  the  mil- 
itary life  that  appealed  to  him  as  it  was  the  op- 
portunity that  such  a  membership  might  afford 
to  be  of  service  to  his  country.  Even  then 
Europe  was  being  devastated  by  a  war  which 
had  no  equal  in  history.  The  German  armies, 
trained  to  a  point  of  unexampled  efficiency, 
with  the  aid  of  their  Allies,  had  overwhelmed 


THE  FLAG  195 

Belgium  and  had  almost  succeeded  in  entering 
Paris  and  in  laying  the  whole  of  France  under 
tribute.  Beaten  back  at  a  crucial  moment  they 
had  dug  themselves  into  the  soil  of  the  invaded 

countrv  and  were  holding  at  bav  the  combined 

•/  • 

forces  of  their  Allied  enemies.  Half  of  Europe 
was  in  arms.  The  tragedies  of  the  seas  were 
appalling.  International  complications  were 
grave  and  unending.  More  than  one  states- 
man of  prophetic  foresight  had  predicted  that 
a  continuance  of  the  war  must  of  necessity 
draw  into  the  maelstrom  the  government  of  the 
United  States.  In  such  an  event  the  country 
would  need  soldiers  and  many  of  them,  and  the 
sooner  they  could  be  put  into  training  to  meet 
such  a  possible  emergency  the  better. 

Moreover  it  was  not  necessary  to  look  across 
the  ocean  to  foresee  the  necessity  for  military 
readiness.  Our  neighbor  to  the  south  was  in 
the  grip  of  armed  lawlessness  and  terrorism. 
Northern  Mexico  was  infested  with  banditti 
which  were  a  constant  menace  to  the  safety  of 
our  border.  Such  government  as  the  stricken 
country  had  was  either  unable  or  unwilling  to 
hold  them  in  check.  It  appeared  to  be  inevi- 


196  THE  FLAG 

table  that  the  United  States,  by  armed  inter- 
vention, must  sooner  or  later  come  to  the  pro- 
tection of  its  citizens.  In  that  event  the  little 
handful  of  troops  of  the  regular  army  must  of 
necessity  be  reinforced  by  units  of  the  state 
militia.  It  might  be  that  soldiers  of  the  Na- 
tional Guard  would  be  used  only  for  patrolling 
the  border,  and  it  might  well  be  that  they  would 
be  sent,  as  was  one  of  Penfield  Butler's  an- 
cestors, into  the  heart  of  Mexico  to  enforce 
permanent  peace  and  tranquility  at  the  point 
of  the  bayonet. 

So  this  was  the  situation,  and  this  was  the 
appeal  to  Pen's  patriotic  ardor.  And  the  ap- 
peal was  a  strong  one.  But  he  did  not  at  once 
respond  to  it.  His  work  and  his  study  ab- 
sorbed his  time  and  thought.  It  was  not  until 
late  in  the  fall  of  that  year,  the  year  1915,  when 
the  crises,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  seemed 
rapidly  approaching,  that  Pen  took  up  for 
earnest  consideration  the  question  of  his  en- 
listment in  the  National  Guard.  Given  by 
nature  to  acting  impulsively,  he  nevertheless, 
in  these  days,  weighed  carefully  any  proposed 
line  of  conduct  on  his  part  which  might  have 


THE  FLAG  197 

an  important  bearing  on  his  future.  But  he 
resolved,  after  due  consideration,  to  join  the 
militia  if  he  could. 

He  went  to  a  young  fellow,  a  wool-sorter  in 
the  mills,  who  was  a  corporal  in  the  militia,  to 
obtain  the  necessary  information  to  make  his 
application.  The  corporal  promised  to  take 
the  matter  up  for  him  with  the  captain  of  the 
local  company,  and  in  due  time  brought  him 
an  application  blank  to  be  filled  out  stating  his 
qualifications  for  membership.  It  was  neces- 
sary that  the  paper  should  be  signed  by  his 
mother  as  evidence  of  her  consent  to  his  enlist- 
ment since  he  was  not  yet  twenty-one  years  of 
age.  She  signed  it  readily  enough,  for  she 
quite  approved  of  his  ambition,  and  she  took 
a  motherly  pride  in  the  evidences  of  patriotism 
that  he  was  constantly  manifesting. 

Armed  with  this  document  he  presented  him- 
self, on  a  drill-night,  to  Captain  Perry  in 
the  officers'  quarters  at  the  armory.  The 
captain  glanced  at  the  paper,  then  he  laid 
it  on  the  table  and  looked  up  at  Pen. 
There  was  a  troubled  expression  on  his 
face. 


198  THE  FLAG 

"I'm  sorry,  Butler,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  afraid 
we  can't  enlist  you." 

The  announcement  came  as  a  shock,  but  not 
utterly  as  a  surprise.  For  days  the  boy  had 
felt  a  kind  of  foreboding  that  something  of 
this  sort  would  happen.  Yet  he  did  not  at  once 
give  way  to  his  disappointment  nor  accept  with- 
out question  the  captain's  pronouncement. 

"May  I  inquire,"  he  asked,  "what  your  rea- 
son is  for  rejecting  me?" 

Captain  Perry  sat  back  in  his  chair  and 
thrust  his  legs  under  the  table.  It  was  appar- 
ent that  he  was  embarrassed,  but  it  was  appar- 
ent also  that  he  would  remain  firm  in  the  mat- 
ter of  his  decision.  Nor  was  Pen  at  such  a  loss 
to  understand  the  reason  for  his  rejection  as 
his  question  might  imply.  He  knew,  instinc- 
tively, that  the  old  story  of  his  disloyalty  to 
the  flag  had  come  up  again,  after  all  these 
years,  to  plague  and  to  thwart  him.  He  was 
quite  right. 

"I  will  tell  you  frankly,  Butler,"  replied  the 
captain,  "what  the  trouble  is.  Since  it  became 
known  that  you  wanted  to  enlist,  some  members 
of  my  company  have  come  to  me  with  a  protest 


THE  FLAG  199 

against  accepting  you.  They  say  they  repre- 
sent the  bulk  of  sentiment  among  the  enlisted 
men.  You  see,  under  these  circumstances,  I 
can't  very  well  take  you.  We  are  citizen  sol- 
diers, not  under  the  iron  discipline  of  the  regu- 
lar army,  and  in  matters  which  are  really  not 
essential  I  must  yield  more  or  less  to  the  wishes 
of  my  boys.  They  like,  in  a  way,  to  choose 
their  associates." 

He  ended  with  an  apologetic  wave  of  the 
hand,  and  a  smile  intended  to  be  conciliatory. 
Chagrined  and  wounded,  but  not  abashed  nor 
silenced,  Pen  stood  his  ground.  He  resolved 
to  see  the  thing  through,  cost  what  pain  and 
humiliation  it  might. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me,"  he  inquired, 
"what  it  is  they  have  against  me?" 

"Why,  if  you  want  to  know,  yes.  They  say 
you're  not  patriotic.  To  be  more  explicit  they 
say  that  up  at  Chestnut  Hill,  where  you  used 
to  live,  you — " 

Pen  interrupted  him.  His  patience  was  ex- 
hausted, his  calmness  gone.  "Oh,  yes!"  he  ex- 
claimed, "I  know.  They  say  I  mistreated  the 
flag.  They  say  I  insulted  it,  threw  it  into  the 


200  THE  FLAG 

mud  and  trampled  on  it.  That's  what  they 
say,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  substantially  that.  Now,  I  don't 
know  whether  it's  true  or  not — " 

"Oh,  it's  true  enough!  I  don't  deny  it. 
And  they  say  also  that  on  account  of  it  all  I 
had  to  leave  Colonel  Butler's  house  and  go  and 
live  with  my  grandfather  Walker  at  Cobb's 
Corners.  They  say  that,  don't  they?" 

"Something  of  that  kind,  I  believe." 

"Well,  that's  true  too.  But  they  don't  say 
that  it  all  happened  half  a  dozen  years  ago, 
when  I  was  a  mere  boy,  that  I  did  it  in  a  fit  of 
anger  at  another  boy,  and  had  nothing  what- 
ever against  the  flag,  and  that  I  was  sorry  for 
it  the  next  minute  and  have  suffered  and  re- 
pented ever  since.  They  don't  say  that  that 
flag  is  just  as  dear  to  me  as  it  is  to  any  man  in 
America,  that  I  love  the  sight  of  it;  that  I'd 
follow  it  anywhere,  and  die  for  it  on  any  bat- 
tlefield,— they  don't  say  that,  do  they?" 

His  cheeks  were  blazing,  his  eyes  were  flash- 
ing, every  muscle  of  his  body  was  tense  under 
the  storm  of  passionate  indignation  that  swept 
over  him.  Captain  Perry,  amazed  and  thrilled 


THE  FLAG  201 

by  the  boy's  earnestness,  straightened  up  in  his 
chair  and  looked  him  squarely  in  the  face. 

"No,"  he  replied,  "they  don't  say  that.  But 
I  believe  it's  true.  And  so  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned— " 

Pen  again  interrupted  him. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  blaming  you,  Captain  Perry; 
you  couldn't  do  anything  else  but  turn  me 
down.  But  some  day,  some  way — I  don't 
know  how  to-night — but  some  way  I'm  going 
to  prove  to  these  people  that  have  been  hound- 
ing me  that  I'm  as  good  a  patriot  and  can  be 
as  good  a  soldier  as  the  best  man  in  your  com- 
pany!" 

"Good!  That's  splendid!"  Captain  Perry 
rose  to  his  feet  and  grasped  the  boy's  hand. 
"And  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Butler;  if 
you're  willing  to  face  the  ordeal  I'll  enlist  you. 
I  believe  in  you." 

But  Pen  would  not  listen  to  it. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  can't  do  that.  It  wouldn't 
be  fair  to  you,  nor  to  your  men,  nor  to  me. 
I'll  meet  the  thing  some  other  way.  I'm  grate- 
ful to  you  all  the  same  though." 

"Very  well;  just  as  you  choose.     But  when 


202  THE  FLAG 

you  need  me  in  your  fight  I'm  at  your  service. 
Remember  that!" 

On  his  way  home  from  the  armory  it  was 
necessary  that  Pen  should  pass  through  the 
main  street  of  the  town.  Many  of  the  shops 
were  still  open  and  were  brilliantly  lighted, 
and  people  were  strolling  carelessly  along  the 
walk,  laughing  and  chatting  as  though  the 
agony  and  horror  and  brutality  of  the  mighty 
conflict  just  across  the  sea  were  all  in  some 
other  planet,  billions  of  miles  away ;  as  though 
the  war  cloud  itself  were  not  pushing  its  om- 
inous black  rim  farther  and  farther  above  the 
horizon  of  our  own  beloved  land.  Now  and 
then  Pen  met,  singly  or  in  pairs,  khaki  clad 
young  men  on  their  way  to  the  armory  for  the 
weekly  drill.  Two  or  three  of  them  nodded  to 
him  as  they  passed  by,  others  looked  at  him 
askance  and  hurried  on.  The  resentment  that 
had  been  roused  in  his  breast  at  Captain 
Perry's  announcement  flamed  up  anew;  but 
as  he  turned  into  the  quieter  streets  on  his 
homeward  route  this  feeling  gave  way  to  one 
of  envy,  and  then  to  one  of  self-pity  and  grief. 
Hard  as  his  lot  had  been  in  comparison  with 


THE  FLAG  203 

the  luxury  he  might  have  had  had  he  remained 
at  Bannerhall,  he  had  never  repined  over  it, 
nor  had  he  been  envious  of  those  whose  lines 
had  been  cast  in  pleasanter  places.  But  to- 
night, after  looking  at  these  sturdy  young  fel- 
lows in  military  garb  preparing  to  serve  their 
state  and  their  country  in  the  not  improbable 
event  of  war,  an  intense  and  passionate  longing 
filled  his  breast  to  be,  like  them,  ready  to  fight, 
to  kill  or  to  be  killed  in  defense  of  that  flag 
which  day  by  day  claimed  his  ever-increasing 
love  and  devotion.  That  he  was  not  permitted 
to  do  so  was  heart-rending.  That  it  was  by 
his  own  fault  that  he  was  not  permitted  to  do 
so  was  agony  indeed.  And  yet  it  was  all  so 
bitterly  unjust.  Had  he  not  paid,  a  thousand 
times  over,  the  full  penalty  for  his  offense, 
trivial  or  terrible  whichever  it  might  have  been? 
Why  should  the  accusing  ghost  of  it  come  back 
after  all  these  years,  to  hound  and  harass  him 
and  make  his  whole  life  wretched? 

It  was  in  no  cheerful  or  contented  mood  that 
he  entered  his  home  and  responded  to  the  af- 
fectionate greeting  of  his  mother. 

"You're    home    early,    dear,"     she     said. 


204  THE  FLAG 

"Didn't  they  keep  you  for  drill?  How  does  it 
seem  to  be  a  soldier?" 

"I  didn't  enlist,  mother." 

"Didn't  enlist?  Why  not?  I  thought  that 
was  the  big  thing  you  were  going  to  do." 

"They  wouldn't  take  me." 

"Why,  Pen!  what  was  the  matter?  I 
thought  it  was  all  as  good  as  settled." 

"Well,  you  know  that  old  trouble  about  the 
flag  at  Chestnut  Hill?" 

"I  know.  I've  never  forgotten  it.  But 
every  one  else  has,  surely." 

"No,  mother,  they  haven't.  That's  the  rea- 
son they  wouldn't  take  me." 

"But,  Pen,  that  was  years  and  years  ago. 
You  were  just  a  baby.  You've  paid  dearly 
enough  for  that.  It's  not  fair!  It's  not  hu- 
man!" 

She,  too,  was  aroused  to  the  point  of  indig- 
nant but  unavailing  protest;  for  she  too  knew 
how  the  boy,  long  years  ago,  had  expiated  to 
the  limit  of  repentance  and  suffering  the  one 
sensational  if  venial  fault  of  his  boyhood. 

"I  know,  mother.  That's  all  true.  I  know 
it's  horribly  un j  ust ;  but  what  can  you  do  ?  It's 


THE  FLAG  205 

a  thing  you  can't  explain  because  it's  partly 
true.  It  will  keep  cropping  up  always,  and 
how  I  am  ever  going  to  live  it  down  I  don't 
know.  Oh,  I  don't  know !" 

He  flung  himself  into  a  chair,  thrust  his 
hands  deep  into  his  trousers'  pockets  and  stared 
despairingly  into  some  forbidding  distance. 
She  grew  sympathetic  then,  and  consoling,  and 
went  to  him  and  put  her  arm  around  his  neck 
and  laid  her  face  against  his  head  and  tried  to 
comfort  him. 

"Never  mind,  dearie!  So  long  as  you,  your- 
self, know  that  you  love  the  flag,  and  so  long 
as  I  know  it,  we  can  afford  to  wait  for  other 
people  to  find  it  out." 

"No,  mother,  we  can't.  They've  got  to  be 
shown.  I  can't  live  this  way.  Some  way  or 
other  I've  got  to  prove  that  I'm  no  coward  and 
I'm  no  traitor." 

"You're  too  severe  with  yourself,  Pen. 
There  are  other  ways,  perhaps  better  ways, 
for  men  to  prove  that  they  love  their  country 
besides  fighting  for  her.  To  be  a  good  citizen 
may  be  far  more  patriotic  than  to  be  a  good 
soldier." 


206  THE  FLAG 

"I  know.  That's  one  of  the  things  I've 
learned,  and  I  believe  it.  And  that'll  do  for 
most  fellows,  but  it  won't  do  for  me.  My  case 
is  different.  I  mistreated  the  flag  once  with 
my  hands  and  arms  and  feet  and  my  whole 
body,  and  I've  got  to  give  my  hands  and  arms 
and  feet  and  my  whole  body  now  to  make  up 
for  it.  There's  no  other  way.  I  couldn't 
make  the  thing  right  in  a  thousand  years  simply 
by  being  a  good  citizen.  Don't  you  see, 
mother?  Don't  you  understand?" 

He  looked  up  into  her  face  with  tear  filled 
eyes.  The  thought  that  had  long  been  with 
him  that  he  must  prove  his  patriotism  by  per- 
sonal sacrifice,  had  grown  during  these  last 
few  days  into  a  settled  conviction  and  a  great 
desire.  He  wanted  her  to  see  the  situation  as 
he  saw  it,  and  to  feel  with  him  the  bitterness  of 
his  disappointment.  And  she  did.  She 
twined  her  arm  more  closely  about  his  neck  and 
pressed  her  lips  against  his  hair. 

But  her  heart-felt  sympathy  made  too  great 
a  draft  on  his  emotional  nature.  It  silenced 
his  voice  and  flooded  his  eyes.  So  she  drew 
her  chair  up  beside  him,  and  he  laid  his  head 


THE  FLAG  207 

in  her  lap  as  he  had  used  to  do  when  he  was 
a  very  little  boy,  and  wept  out  his  disappoint- 
ment and  grief. 

And  as  he  lay  there  a  new  thought  came  to 
him.  Swiftly  as  a  whirlwind  forms  and  sweeps 
across  the  land,  it  took  on  form  and  motion  and 
swept  through  the  channels  of  his  mind.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet,  dashed  the  tears  from  his 
face,  and  looked  down  on  his  mother  with  a 
countenance  transformed. 

"Mother!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  have  an  idea!" 

"Why,  Pen ;  how  you  startled  me !  What  is 
it?" 

"I  have  an  idea,  mother.     I'm  going  to — " 

He  paused  and  looked  away  from  her. 

"Going  to  what,  Pen?" 

He  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  after  a  moment 
he  said: 

"I'll  tell  you  later,  mother,  after  it's  all 
worked  out  and  I'm  sure  of  it.  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  bring  home  to  you  any  more  disappoint- 
ments." 


CHAPTER  X 

IT  was  three  days  later  that  Pen  came  home 
one  evening,  alert  of  step,  bright-eyed,  his 
countenance  beaming  with  satisfaction  and  de- 
light. 

"Well,  mother,"  he  cried  as  he  entered  the 
house;  "it's  settled.  I'm  going!" 

She  looked  up  in  surprise  and  alarm. 

"What's  settled,  Pen?  Where  are  you  go- 
ing?" 

"I'm  going  to  war." 

She  dropped  the  work  at  which  she  had  been 
busy  and  sat  down  weakly  in  a  chair  by  her 
dining-room  table.  He  went  to  her  and  laid 
an  affectionate  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Pardon  me,  mother!"  he  continued,  "I 
didn't  mean  to  frighten  you,  but  I'm  so  happy 
over  it." 

She  looked  up  into  his  face. 

"To  war,  Pen?    What  war?" 

"The  big  war,  mother.     The  war  in  France. 


THE  FLAG  209 

Do  you  remember  the  other  night  when  I  told 
you  I  had  an  idea?" 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"Well,  that  was  it.  It  occurred  to  me,  then, 
that  if  I  couldn't  fight  for  my  own  country, 
under  my  own  flag,  I  would  fight  for  those 
other  countries,  under  their  flags.  They  are 
making  a  desperate  and  a  splendid  war  to  up- 
hold the  rights  of  civilized  nations." 

He  stood  there,  erect,  manly,  resolute,  his 
face  lighted  with  the  glow  of  his  enthusiasm. 
She  could  but  admire  him,  even  though  her 
heart  sank  under  the  weight  of  his  announced 
purpose.  Many  times,  of  an  evening,  they  had 
talked  together  of  the  mighty  conflict  in  Eu- 
rope. From  the  very  first  Pen's  sympathies 
had  been  with  France  and  her  Allies.  He 
could  not  get  over  denouncing  the  swiftness  and 
savagery  of  the  raid  into  Belgium,  the  wanton 
destruction  of  her  cities  and  her  monuments  of 
art,  the  hardships  and  brutalities  imposed  upon 
her  people.  The  Bryce  report,  with  its  de- 
tails of  outrage  and  crime,  stirred  his  nature 
to  its  depths.  The  tragedy  of  the  Lusitania 
filled  him  with  indignation  and  horror.  Now, 


210  THE  FLAG 

suddenly,  had  come  the  desire  and  the  oppor- 
tunity to  fight  with  those  peoples  who  were 
struggling  to  save  their  ideals  from  destruc- 
tion. 

"I'm  going  to  Canada,"  he  continued,  "to 
enlist  in  the  American  Legion.  They  say  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  of  young  men  from  the 
United  States  who  are  willing  to  fight  under 
the  Union  Jack,  have  gone  up  into  Canada  for 
training  and  are  this  very  minute  facing  the 
gray  coats  of  the  German  enemy  in  northern 
France." 

"But,  Pen,"  she  protested,  "this  is  such  a 
horrible  war.  The  soldiers  live  in  the  mud- 
diest, foulest  kinds  of  trenches.  They  kill 
each  other  with  gases  and  blazing  oil.  They 
slaughter  each  other  by  thousands  with  guns 
that  go  by  machinery.  It's  simply  terrible!" 

"I  know,  mother.  It's  modern  warfare. 
It's  up  to  date.  It's  no  pink  tea  as  some  one 
has  said.  But  the  more  awful  it  is  the  sooner 
it'll  be  over,  and  the  more  credit  there'll  be  to 
us  who  fight  in  it." 

"And  you'll  be  so  far  away." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  pale-faced,  with  ap- 


THE  FLAG  211 

pealing  eyes.  He  knew  how  uncontrollably 
she  shrank  from  the  thought  of  losing  him  in 
this  wild  vortex  of  savagery.  He  patted  her 
cheek  tenderly. 

"But  you'll  be  a  good  patriot,"  he  said,  "and 
let  me  go.  It's  my  duty  to  fight,  and  it's  your 
duty  to  let  me  fight.  There  isn't  any  doubt 
about  that.  Besides,  this  isn't  really  France's 
war  nor  England's  war  any  more  than  it  is 
our  war,  or  any  more  than  it  is  the  war  of  any 
country  that  wants  to  maintain  the  ideals  of 
modern  civilization.  I  shall  be  serving  my 
country  almost  the  same  as  though  I  were 
fighting  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  And 
I'll  be  answering  in  the  only  way  it's  possible 
for  me  to  answer,  those  people  who  have  been 
charging  me  with  disloyalty  to  the  flag.  Oh, 
I  must  show  you  what  Grandfather  Butler 
says.  He  made  a  speech  yesterday  at  the  flag- 
raising  at  Chestnut  Valley,  and  it's  all  in  the 
Lowbridge  Citizen  this  morning.  Listen! 
Here's  the  way  he  winds  up." 

He  drew  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket  and 
read : 

"  'So,  fellow  citizens,  let  me  predict  that  be- 


212  THE  FLAG 

fore  this  great  war  shall  come  to  an  end  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  will  wave  over  every  battle- 
field in  Europe.  Sooner  or  later  we  must  en- 
ter the  conflict ;  and  the  sooner  the  better.  For 
it's  our  war.  It's  the  war  of  every  country 
that  loves  liberty  and  justice.  Up  to  this  mo- 
ment the  Allies  have  been  fighting  for  the  free- 
dom of  the  world,  your  freedom  and  mine,  my 
friends,  as  well  as  their  own.  It  is  high  time 
the  Government  at  Washington,  impelled  by 
the  patriotic  ardor  of  our  thinking  citizens, 
declared  the  enemies  of  England  and  France 
to  be  our  enemies,  and  joined  hands  with  those 
heroic  countries  to  stamp  out  forever  the  teu- 
tonic menace  to  liberty  and  civilization.  In 
the  meantime  I  say  to  the  red-blooded  youth  of 
America:  Glory  awaits  you  on  the  war- 
scarred  fields  of  France.  Go  forth !  There  is 
no  barrier  in  the  way.  Remember  that  when 
the  ragged  troops  of  Washington  were  locked 
in  a  death-grip  with  the  red-coated  soldiers  of 
King  George,  Lafayette,  Rochambeau  and  de 
Grasse  came  to  our  aid  with  six  and  twenty 
thousand  of  the  bravest  sons  of  France.  It 
is  your  turn  now  to  spring  to  the  aid  of  this 


THE  FLAG  213 

stricken  land  and  prove  that  you  are  worthy 
descendants  of  the  grateful  patriots  of  old.' ' 

Pen  finished  his  reading  and  laid  down  the 
paper.  There  had  been  a  tremor  in  his  voice 
at  the  end,  and  his  eyes  were  wet. 

"That's  grandfather,"  he  said,  "all  over.  I 
knew  he'd  feel  that  way  about  it.  I  had  de- 
cided to  go  before  I  read  that  speech.  Now 
I  couldn't  stay  at  home  if  I  tried.  I'm  his 
grandson  yet,  mother,  and  I  shall  answer  his 
call  to  arms." 

After  that  he  sat  down  quietly  and  unfolded 
to  his  mother  all  of  his  plans.  He  told  her  that 
he  had  gone  to  Major  Starbird  and  had  con- 
fided to  him  his  desire  to  serve  with  the  Allied 
armies.  The  old  soldier,  veteran  of  many  bat- 
tles, had  sympathized  with  his  ambition  and 
had  procured  for  him  the  necessary  informa- 
tion concerning  enlistment  and  training  in 
Canada.  He  was  to  go  to  New  York  and  re- 
port to  a  certain  confidential  agent  there  at  an 
address  which  had  been  given  him,  where  he 
would  receive  the  necessary  credentials  for  en- 
listment in  the  new  American  Legion  then  in 
process  of  formation.  And  Major  Starbird 


214  THE  FLAG 

had  said  to  him  that  when  he  returned,  if  at  all, 
his  place  at  the  mill  would  still  be  open  to  him 
and  he  would  be  welcomed  back.  He  told  it 
all  with  a  quiet  enthusiasm  that  evidenced  not 
only  his  fixed  purpose,  but  also  the  fact  that  his 
whole  heart  was  in  the  adventure,  and  that 
there  would  be  no  turning  back. 

And  his  mother  gave  her  consent  that  he 
should  go.  What  else  was  there  for  her  to  do? 
Mothers  have  sent  their  sons  to  war  from  time 
immemorial.  It  is  thus  that  they  suffer  and 
bleed  for  their  country.  And  who  shall  say 
that  their  sacrifice  is  not  as  great  in  its  way  as 
is  the  sacrifice  of  those  who  offer  up  their  lives 
in  battle?  But  that  night,  through  sleepless 
hours,  when  she  thought  of  the  loneliness  that 
would  be  hers,  and  the  hazards  and  horrors  that 
would  be  his,  and  of  how,  after  all,  he  was  such 
a  mere  boy,  to  be  petted  and  spoiled  and  kept 
at  home  rather  than  to  be  sent  out  to  meet  the 
trials  and  terrors  of  the  most  cruel  war  in  his- 
tory, her  heart  failed  her,  and  she  wept  in  un- 
speakable dread.  It  is  the  women,  in  the  long 
run,  who  are  the  greater  sufferers  from  the 
armed  clash  of  nations ! 


THE  FLAG  215 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief 

While  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses, 
Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and  brief, 

Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses, 
With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, 
Sheds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom's  field  of  honor ! 

It  was  three  days  later  that  Pen  went  away. 
There  were  many  little  matters  to  which  he 
must  attend  before  going.  His  mother  must 
be  safeguarded  and  her  comfort  looked  after 
during  his  absence.  His  own  private  affairs 
must  be  left  in  such  shape  that  in  the  event  of 
his  not  returning  they  could  easily  be  closed 
up.  He  permitted  nothing  to  remain  at  loose 
ends.  But  to  no  one  save  to  his  employer  and 
his  mother  did  he  confide  his  plans.  He  did  not 
care  to  publish  a  purpose  that  lay  so  near  to 
his  heart.  He  went  on  the  early  morning 
train.  Major  Starbird  was  at  the  station  to 
wring  his  hand  and  bid  him  God-speed  and 
wish  him  a  safe  return.  But  his  mother  was 
not  there.  She  was  in  her  room  at  home,  her 
white  face  against  the  window,  gazing  with 
tear- wet  eyes  toward  the  south.  She  heard  the 


216  THE  FLAG 

distant  rumble  of  the  cars  as  they  came,  and  the 
blasts  from  the  far  away  whistle  fell  softly  on 
her  ears.  And,  by  and  by,  the  ever  lengthen- 
ing and  fading  line  of  smoke  against  the  far 
horizon  told  her  that  the  train  bearing  her  only 
child  to  unknown  and  possibly  dreadful  des- 
tiny was  on  its  way. 

Pen  had  been  in  New  York  before.  On  sev- 
eral memorable  occasions,  as  a  boy,  he  had  ac- 
companied his  grandfather  Butler  to  the  city 
and  had  enjoyed  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the 
great  metropolis,  and  had  learned  something 
of  its  ways  and  byways.  He  had  no  difficulty, 
therefore,  in  finding  the  address  that  had  been 
given  him  by  Major  Starbird,  and,  having 
found  it,  he  was  made  welcome  there.  He 
learned,  what  indeed  he  already  knew,  that 
Canada  was  not  averse  to  filling  out  her  quota 
of  loyal  troops  for  the  great  war  by  enlisting 
and  training  young  men  of  good  character  and 
robust  physique  from  the  States.  Armed  with 
confidential  letters  of  introduction  and  com- 
mendation, and  certain  other  requisite  docu- 
ments, he  left  the  quiet  office  on  the  busy  street 
feeling  that  at  last  the  desire  of  his  heart  was 


THE  FLAG  217 

to  be  fully  gratified.  It  was  now  late  after- 
noon. He  was  to  take  a  night  train  from  the 
Grand  Central  station  which  would  carry  him 
by  way  of  Albany  to  Toronto.  Borne  along 
by  the  crowd  of  home-going  people  he  found 
himself  on  Broadway  facing  Trinity  Church. 
The  dusk  of  evening  was  already  falling,  and 
here  and  there  the  glow  of  electric  lamps  began 
to  pierce  the  gloom.  On  one  occasion  he  had 
wandered,  with  his  grandfather,  through  Trin- 
ity Churchyard,  and  had  read  and  been  thrilled 
by  inscriptions  on  ancient  tomb-stones  marking 
the  graves  of  those  who  had  served  their  coun- 
try well  in  her  early  and  struggling  years. 
Had  it  been  still  day  he  would  not  have  been 
able  to  resist  the  impulse  to  repeat  that  experi- 
ence of  his  boyhood.  As  it  was,  he  stood,  for 
many  minutes,  peering  through  the  iron  rail- 
ing that  separated  the  living,  hurrying  throngs 
on  the  pavement  from  the  narrow  homes  of 
those  who,  more  than  a  century  before,  had 
served  their  generation  by  the  will  of  God  and 
had  fallen  on  sleep. 

As  he  turned  his  eyes  away  from  the  deepen- 
ing shadows  of  the  graveyard  it  occurred  to 


218  THE  FLAG 

him  that  he  would  go  to  a  hotel  formerly  fre- 
quented by  Colonel  Butler,  and  get  his  dinner 
there  before  going  to  the  train.  It  would  seem 
like  old  times,  for  it  was  there  that  they  had 
stayed  when  he  had  accompanied  his  grandfa- 
ther on  those  trips  of  his  boyhood.  To  be  sure 
the  colonel  would  not  be  there,  but  delightful 
memories  would  be  stirred  by  revisiting  the 
place,  and  he  felt  that  those  memories  would  be 
most  welcome  this  night. 

Ever  more  and  more,  in  these  latter  days,  his 
thoughts  had  turned  toward  his  boyhood  home. 
After  six  years  of  absence  and  estrangement 
there  was  still  no  tenderer  spot  in  his  heart, 
save  the  one  occupied  by  his  mother,  than  the 
spot  in  which  reposed  his  memories  of  his  child- 
hood's hero,  the  master  of  Bannerhall.  He 
wished  that  there  might  have  been  a  reconcilia- 
tion between  them  before  he  went  to  war.  He 
would  have  given  much  if  only  he  could  have 
seen  the  stern  face  with  its  gray  moustache  and 
its  piercing  eyes,  if  he  could  have  felt  the  warm 
grasp  of  the  hand,  if  he  could  have  heard  the 
firm  and  kindly  voice  speak  to  him  one  word 
of  farewell  and  Godspeed.  He  sighed  as  he 


THE  FLAG  219 

turned  in  at  the  subway  kiosk  and  descended 
the  steps  to  the  platform  to  join  the  pushing 
and  the  jostling  crowd  on  its  homeward  way. 
At  the  Grand  Central  Station  he  procured  his 
railway  tickets  and  checked  his  baggage  and 

•/  fJO       C7 

then  came  out  into  Forty-second  street. 
After  a  few  minutes  of  bewildered  turning  he 
located  himself  and  made  his  way  without  fur- 
ther trouble  to  his  hotel.  But  the  place  seemed 
strange  to  him  now ;  not  as  spacious  as  when  he 
was  a  boy,  not  as  ornate,  not  as  wonderful. 
It  was  only  after  he  had  eaten  his  dinner  and 
come  out  again  into  the  lobby  that  it  took  on 
any  kind  of  a  familiar  air,  and  not  until  he 
was  ready  to  depart  that  he  could  have  im- 
agined the  erect  form  of  Colonel  Butler,  with 
its  imposing  and  attractive  personality,  ap- 
proaching him  through  the  crowd  as  he  had  so 
often  seen  it  in  other  years. 

Then,  as  he  turned  toward  the  street  door, 
a  strange  thing  happened.  A  familiar  figure 
emerged  from  a  side  corridor  and  came  out  into 
the  main  lobby  in  full  view  of  the  departing 
boy.  It  needed  no  second  glance  to  convince 
Pen  that  this  was  indeed  his  grandfather.  The 


220  THE  FLAG 

stern  face,  the  white,  drooping  moustache,  the 
still  soldierly  bearing,  could  belong  to  no  one 
else.  The  colonel  stopped  for  a  minute  to 
make  inquiry  and  obtain  information  from  a 
hotel  attendant,  then,  having  apparently 
learned  what  he  wished  to  know,  he  stood  look- 
ing searchingly  about  him. 

Pen  stood  still  in  his  tracks  and  wondered 
what  he  should  do.  The  vision  had  come  upon 
him  so  suddenly  that  it  had  quite  taken  away 
his  breath.  But  it  did  not  take  long  for  him 
to  decide.  He  would  do  the  obvious  and  manly 
thing  and  let  the  consequences  take  care  of 
themselves.  He  stepped  forward  and  held  out 
his  hand. 

"How  do  you  do,  grandfather,"  he  said. 

Colonel  Butler  turned  an  unrecognizing 
glance  on  the  boy. 

"You  have  the  advantage  of  me,  sir,"  he  re- 
plied. "I—" 

He  stopped  speaking  suddenly,  his  face 
flushed,  and  a  look  of  glad  surprise  came  into 
his  eyes. 

"Why,  Penfield!"  he  exclaimed,  "is  this 
you?" 


THE  FLAG  221 

But,  before  Pen  had  time  to  respond,  either 
by  word  or  movement,  to  the  greeting,  the  old 
man's  gloved  hand  which  had  been  thrust  partly 
forward,  fell  back  to  his  side,  the  light  of  rec- 
ognition left  his  eyes,  and  he  stood,  as  stern- 
faced  and  determined  as  he  had  stood  on  that 
February  night,  years  ago,  asking  about  a  boy 
and  a  flag. 

"Yes,  grandfather,"  said  Pen,  "it  is  I." 

The  colonel  did  not  turn  away,  nor  did  any 
harsh  word  come  to  his  lips.  He  spoke  with 
cold  courtesy,  as  he  might  have  spoken  to  any 
casual  acquaintance. 

"This  is  a  surprise,  sir.  I  had  not  expected 
to  see  you  here." 

He  made  a  brave  effort  to  control  his  voice, 
but  it  trembled  in  spite  of  him. 

Pen's  heart  was  stirred  with  sudden  pity. 
He  saw  as  he  looked  on  his  grandfather's  face, 
that  age  and  sorrow  had  made  sad  inroads  dur- 
ing these  few  years.  The  hair  and  moustache, 
iron-gray  before,  were  now  completely  white, 
the  countenance  was  deep-lined  and  sallow,  the 
eyes  had  lost  their  piercing  brightness.  But 
Pen  did  not  permit  his  surprise,  or  his  sorrow, 


222  THE  FLAG 

or  his  grief  at  the  manner  of  his  reception,  to 
show  itself  by  any  word  or  look. 

"Nor  did  I  expect  to  see  you,"  he  said. 
"Have  you  been  long  in  the  city?" 

"I  arrived  less  than  an  hour  ago.  I  expect 
to  meet  here  my  friend  Colonel  Marshall  with 
whom  I  shall  discuss  the  state  of  the  coun- 
try." 

"Did — did  you  come  alone?" 

It  was  the  wrong  thing  to  say,  and  Pen 
knew  it  the  moment  he  had  said  it.  But  the 
old  man's  appearance  of  feebleness  had  aroused 
in  him  the  sudden  thought  that  he  ought  not 
to  be  traveling  alone,  and,  impulsive!}',  he  had 
given  expression  to  the  thought.  Colonel 
Butler  straightened  his  shoulders  and  turned 
upon  his  grandson  a  look  of  fine  scorn. 

"I  came  alone,  sir,"  he  replied.  "How  else 
did  you  expect  me  to  come?" 

"Why,  I  thought  possibly  Aunt  Milly  might 
have  come  along." 

"In  troublous  times  like  these  the  woman's 
place  is  at  the  fire-side.  The  man's  duty 
should  lead  him  wherever  his  country  calls,  or 
wherever  he  can  be  of  service  to  a  people  de- 


THE  FLAG  223 

fending  themselves  against  the  onslaught  of 
armed  autocracy." 

"Yes,  grandfather." 

"I  am  therefore  here  to  take  counsel  with 
certain  men  of  judgment  concerning  the  par- 
ticipation of  this  country  in  the  bloody  strug- 
gle that  is  going  on  abroad.  After  that  I  shall 
proceed  to  Washington  to  urge  upon  the  heads 
of  our  government  my  belief  that  the  time  is 
ripe  to  throw  the  weight  of  our  influence,  and 
the  weight  of  our  wealth,  and  the  weight  of 
our  armies,  into  the  scale  with  France  and 
Great  Britain  for  the  subjugation  of  those  cen- 
tral powers  that  are  waging  upon  these  gallant 
countries  a  most  unjust  and  unrighteous 
war." 

"Yes,  grandfather;  I  agree  with  you." 

"Of  course  you  do,  sir.  No  right-minded 
man  could  fail  to  agree  with  me.  And  I  shall 
tender  my  sword  and  my  services,  to  be  at  the 
disposal  of  my  country,  in  whatever  branch  of 
the  service  the  Secretary  of  War  may  see  fit  to 
assign  me  as  soon  as  war  is  declared.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  sir,  we  are  already  at  war  with 
Germany.  Both  by  land  and  sea  she  has,  for 


224  THE  FLAG 

the  last  year,  been  making  open  war  upon  our 
commerce,  on  our  citizens,  on  the  integrity  of 
our  government.  It  is  exasperating,  sir,  ex- 
asperating beyond  measure,  to  see  the  authori- 
ties at  Washington  drifting  aimlessly  and  un- 
preparedly into  an  armed  conflict  which  is 
bound  to  come.  Our  president  should  demand 
from  congress  at  once  a  declaration  that  a  state 
of  war  exists  with  Germany,  and  with  that  de- 
claration should  go  a  system  of  organized  pre- 
paredness, and  then,  sir,  we  should  go  to  Europe 
and  fight,  and,  thus  fighting,  help  our  Allies 
and  save  our  native  land.  It  shall  be  my  er- 
rand to  Washington  to  urge  such  an  aggres- 


sive course." 


Of  his  belief  in  his  theory  there  could  be  no 
doubt.  Of  his  earnestness  in  advocating  it 
there  was  not  the  slightest  question.  His  pro- 
found sympathy  with  the  Allies  did  credit  to 
his  heart  as  well  as  his  judgment.  And  the 
devotion  of  this  one-armed  and  enfeebled  vet- 
eran to  the  cause  of  his  own  country,  his  eager- 
ness to  serve  her  in  the  field  and  his  confidence 
in  his  ability  still  to  do  so,  were  pathetic  as  well 
as  inspiring.  It  was  all  so  big,  and  patriotic, 


THE  FLAG  225 

and  splendid,  even  in  its  childish  egotism  and 
simplicity,  that  the  pure  absurdity  of  it  found 
no  place  in  the  mind  of  this  affectionate  and 
manly-hearted  boy. 

"I  believe  you  are  right,  grandfather,"  he 
said,  "and  it's  noble  of  you  to  offer  your  ser- 
vices that  way." 

"Thank  you,  sir!" 

The  colonel  turned  as  if  to  move  toward  the 
information  desk  at  the  office,  and  then  turned 
back. 

"Pardon  me!"  he  said,  "but  I  forgot  to  in- 
quire concerning  your  own  errand  in  the 
city." 

"I  am  on  my  way  to  Canada,  grandfather." 

A  look  of  surprise  came  into  the  old  man's 
eyes,  followed  at  once  by  an  expression  of  in- 
finite scorn.  He  remembered  that,  in  the  days 
of  the  civil  war,  slackers  and  rebel  sympathizers 
who  wished  to  evade  the  draft  made  their  way 
across  the  national  border  into  Canada.  They 
had  received  the  contempt  of  their  own  genera- 
tion and  had  drawn  a  figurative  bar-sinister 
across  the  shield  of  their  descendants.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  this  grandchild  of  his  was 


226  THE  FLAG 

about  to  add  disgrace  to  disloyalty?  That,  in 
addition  to  heaping  insults  on  the  flag  of  his 
country  as  a  boy,  he  was  now,  as  a  man,  taking 
time  by  the  forelock  and  escaping  to  the  old 
harbor  of  safety  to  avoid  some  possible  future 
conscription?  The  absurdity  and  impractica- 
bility of  such  a  proposition  did  not  occur  to  him 
at  the  moment,  only  the  humiliation  and  the 
horror  of  it. 

"To  Canada,  sir?"  he  demanded;  "the  refuge 
of  cowards  and  copperheads!  Why  to  Can- 
ada, sir,  in  the  face  of  this  impending  crisis  in 
your  country's  affairs?" 

His  voice  rose  at  the  end  in  angry  protest. 
The  look  of  scorn  that  blazed  from  under  his 
gray  eye-brows  was  withering  in  its  intensity. 
Pen,  who  was  sufficiently  familiar  with  the  his- 
tory of  the  civil  war  to  know  what  lay  in  his 
grandfather's  mind,  answered  quickly  but 
quietly : 

"I  am  going  to  Canada  to  enlist." 

"To— to  what?    Enlist?" 

"Yes;  in  the  American  Legion;  to  fight  un- 
der the  Union  Jack  in  France." 

A  pillar   stood  near  by,   and  the  colonel 


THE  FLAG  227 

backed  up  against  it  for  support.  The  shock 
of  the  surprise,  the  sudden  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing, left  him  nerveless. 

"And  you — you  are  going  to  war?" 

He  could  not  quite  believe  it  yet.  He 
wanted  confirmation. 

"Yes,  grandfather;  I'm  going  to  war.  I 
couldn't  stay  out  of  it.  Until  my  own  coun- 
try takes  up  arms  I'll  fight  under  another  flag. 
When  she  does  get  into  it  I  hope  to  fight  under 
the  Stars  and  Stripes." 

A  wonderful  look  came  into  the  old  man's 
face,  a  look  of  pride,  of  satisfaction,  of  unadul- 
terated joy.  His  mouth  twitched  as  though 
he  desired  to  speak  and  could  not.  Then,  sud- 
denly, he  thrust  out  his  one  arm  and  seized 
Pen's  hand  in  a  mighty  and  affectionate  grip. 
In  that  moment  the  sorrow,  the  bitterness,  the 
estrangement  of  years  vanished,  never  to  re- 
turn. 

"I  am  proud  of  you,  sir!"  he  said.  "You 
are  worthy  of  your  illustrious  ancestors.  You 
are  maintaining  the  best  traditions  of  Banner- 
hall." 

"I'm  glad  you're  pleased,  grandfather." 


228  THE  FLAG 

"Pleased  is  too  mild  an  expression.  I  am 
rejoiced.  It  is  the  proudest  moment  of  my 
life."  He  stepped  away  from  the  pillar, 
straightened  his  shoulders,  and  gazed  benig- 
nantly  on  his  grandson.  "Not  that  I  especially 
desire,"  he  added  after  a  moment,  "that  you 
should  be  subjected  to  the  hazards  and  the 
hardships  of  a  soldier's  life.  That  goes  with- 
out saying.  But  it  is  the  hazards  and  the  hard- 
ships he  faces  that  make  the  soldier  a  hero. 
Death  itself  has  no  terrors  for  the  patriotic 
brave.  'Dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  patria 
mori' " 

His  eyes  wandered  away  into  some  alluring 
distance  and  his  thought  into  the  fields  of  mem- 
ory, and  for  a  moment  he  was  silent.  Nor  did 
Pen  speak.  He  felt  that  the  occasion  was  too 
momentous,  the  event  too  sacred  to  be  spoiled 
by  unnecessary  words  from  him. 

It  was  the  colonel  who  at  last  broke  the 
silence. 

"It  is  not  an  opportune  time,"  he  said,  "to 
speak  of  the  past.  But,  as  to  the  future,  you 
may  rest  in  confidence.  While  you  are  absent 
your  mother  shall  be  looked  after.  Her  every 


THE  FLAG  229 

want  shall  be  supplied.  It  will  be  my  delight 
to  attend  to  the  matter  personally." 

Swift  tears  sprang  to  Pen's  eyes.  Surely 
the  beautiful,  the  tender  side  of  life  was  again 
turning  toward  him.  It  was  with  difficulty 
that  he  was  able  sufficiently  to  control  his  voice 
to  reply: 

"Thank  you,  grandfather!  You  are  very 
good  to  us." 

"Do  not  mention  it!  How  about  your  own 
wants?  Have  you  money  sufficient  to  carry 
you  to  your  destination?" 

"Thank  you!  I  have  all  the  money  I 
need." 

"Very  well.  I  shall  communicate  with  you 
later,  and  see  that  you  lack  nothing  for  your 
comfort.  Will  you  kindly  send  me  your  ad- 
dress when  you  are  permanently  located  in 
your  training  camp?" 

"Yes,  I  will." 

Pen  glanced  at  his  watch  and  saw  that  he 
had  but  a  few  minutes  left  in  which  to  catch 
his  train. 

"I'm  sorry,  grandfather,"  he  said,  "but  when 
I  met  you  I  was  just  starting  for  the  station  to 


230  THE  FLAG 

take  my  train  north ;  and  now,  if  I  don't  hurry, 
I'll  get  left." 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  the  old  man 
grasped  it  anew. 

"Penfield,  my  boy;"  his  voice  was  firm  and 
brave  as  he  spoke.  "Penfield,  my  boy,  quit 
yourself  like  the  man  that  you  are!  Remem- 
ber whose  blood  courses  in  your  veins!  Re- 
member that  you  are  an  American  citizen  and 
be  proud  of  it.  Farewell!" 

He  parted  his  white  moustache,  bent  over, 
pressed  a  kiss  upon  his  grandson's  forehead, 
swung  him  about  to  face  the  door,  and  watched 
his  form  as  he  retreated.  When  he  turned 
again  he  found  his  friend,  Colonel  Marshall, 
standing  at  his  side. 

"I  have  just  bidden  farewell,"  he  said 
proudly,  "to  my  grandson,  Master  Penfield 
Butler,  who  is  leaving  on  the  next  train  for 
Canada  where  he  will  go  into  training  with  the 
American  Legion,  and  eventually  fight  under 
the  Union  Jack,  on  the  war-scarred  fields  of 
France." 

"He  is  a  brave  and  patriotic  boy,"  replied 
Colonel  Marshall. 


THE  FLAG  231 

"It  is  in  his  blood  and  breeding,  sir.  No 
Butler  of  my  line  was  ever  yet  a  coward,  or  ever 
failed  to  respond  to  a  patriotic  call." 

And  as  for  Pen,  midnight  found  him  speed- 
ing northward  with  a  heart  more  full  and  grate- 
ful, and  a  purpose  more  splendidly  fixed,  than 
his  life  had  ever  before  known. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  late  in  the  day  following  his  depar- 
ture from  New  York  that  Pen  reached  his  des- 
tination in  Canada.  In  a  certain  suburban 
town  not  far  from  Toronto  he  found  a  great 
training  camp.  It  was  here  that  selected  units 
of  the  new  Dominion  armies  received  their  mili- 
tary instruction  prior  to  being  sent  abroad.  It 
was  here  also  that  many  of  the  young  men  from 
the  States,  desirous  of  righting  under  the 
Union  Jack,  came  to  enlist  with  the  Canadian 
troops  and  to  receive  their  first  lessons  in  the 
science  of  warfare.  Canada  was  stirred  as  she 
had  never  been  stirred  before  in  all  her  history. 
Her  troops  already  at  the  front  had  received 
their  first  great  baptism  of  fire  at  Langemarck. 
They  had  fought  desperately,  they  had  won 
splendidly,  but  their  losses  had  been  appalling. 
So  the  young  men  of  Canada,  eager  to  avenge 
the  slaughter  of  their  countrymen,  were  has- 
tening to  fill  the  depleted  ranks,  and  the  young 


THE  FLAG  233 

men  from  the  States  were  proud  to  bear  them 
company. 

But  life  in  the  training  camps  was  no  holi- 
day. It  was  hard,  steady,  strenuous  business, 
carried  on  under  the  most  rigid  form  of  dis- 
cipline. Yet  the  men  were  well  clothed,  well 
fed,  had  comfortable  quarters,  enjoyed  regu- 
lar periods  of  recreation,  and  were  content  with 
their  lot,  save  that  their  eagerness  to  complete 
their  training  and  get  to  the  firing  line  inevi- 
tably manifested  itself  in  expressions  of  im- 
patience. 

To  get  up  at  5 :30  in  the  morning  and  drill 
for  an  hour  before  breakfast  was  no  great  task, 
nor  two  successive  hours  of  fighting  with  tipped 
bayonets,  nor  throwing  of  real  bombs  and 
hand-grenades,  nor  was  the  back-breaking  dig- 
ging of  trenches,  nor  the  exhaustion  from  long 
marches,  if  only  by  such  experiences  they  could 
fit  themselves  eventually  to  fight  their  enemy 
not  only  with  courage  but  also  with  that  skill 
and  efficiency  which  counts  for  so  much  in 
modern  warfare. 

It  was  ten  days  after  Pen's  enlistment  that, 
being  off  duty,  he  crossed  the  parade  ground 


234  THE  FLAG 

one  evening  and  went  into  the  large  reading 
and  recreation  room  of  the  Young  Men's  Chris- 
tian Association,  established  and  maintained 
there  for  the  benefit  of  the  troops  in  training. 
He  had  no  errand  except  that  he  wished  to 
write  a  letter  to  his  mother,  and  the  conven- 
iences offered  made  it  a  favorite  place  for  let- 
ter writing. 

There  were  few  people  in  the  room,  for  it  was 
still  early,  and  the  writing  tables  were  compara- 
tively unoccupied.  But  at  one  of  them,  with 
his  back  to  the  entrance,  sat  a  young  man  in 
uniform  busy  with  his  correspondence.  Pen 
glanced  at  him  casually  as  he  sat  down  to  write ; 
his  quarter  face  only  was  visible.  But  the 
glance  had  left  an  impression  on  his  mind  that 
the  face  and  figure  were  those  of  some  one  he 
had  at  some  time  known.  He  selected  his 
writing  paper  and  took  up  a  pen,  but  the  feel- 
ing within  him  that  he  must  look  again  and 
see  if  he  could  possibly  recognize  his  comrade 
in  arms  was  too  strong  to  be  resisted.  Appar- 
ently the  feeling  was  mutual,  for  when  Pen 
did  turn  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  other 
visitor,  he  found  that  the  young  man  had 


THE  FLAG  235 

ceased  writing,  and  was  sitting  erect  in  his 
chair  and  looking  squarely  at  him.  It  needed 
no  second  glance  to  convince  him  that  his  com- 
panion was  none  other  than  Aleck  Sands.  For 
a  moment  there  was  an  awkward  pause.  It 
was  apparent  that  the  recognition  was  mutual, 
but  it  was  apparent  also  that  in  the  shock  of 
surprise  neither  boy  knew  quite  what  to  do. 
It  was  Aleck  who  made  the  first  move.  He 
rose,  crossed  the  room  to  where  Pen  was  sit- 
ting, and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Pen,"  he  said,  "are  you  willing  to  shake 
hands  with  me  now?  You  know  I  was  dog 
enough  once  to  refuse  a  like  offer  from 
you." 

"I'm  not  only  willing  but  glad  to,  if  you 
want  to  let  bygones  be  bygones." 

"I'll  agree  to  that  if  you  will  agree  to  for- 
give me  for  what  I've  done  against  you  and 
against  the  flag." 

"What  you've  done  against  the  flag?" 

Pen  was  staring  at  him  in  surprise.  When 
had  the  burden  of  that  guilt  been  shifted? 

"Yes,  I,"  answered  Aleck.  "I  did  far  more 
against  the  flag  that  day  at  Chestnut  Hill  than 


236  THE  FLAG 

you  ever  thought  of  doing.  I  haven't  realized 
it  until  lately,  but  now  that  I  do  know  it,  I'm 
trying  in  every  way  I  possibly  can  to  make  it 
right." 

"Why,  you  didn't  trample  on  it,  nor  speak 
of  it  disrespectfully,  nor  refuse  to  apologize  to 
it;  it  was  I  who  did  all  that." 

"I  know,  but  I  dogged  you  into  it.  If  I 
myself  had  paid  proper  respect  to  the  flag  you 
would  never  have  got  into  that  trouble.  Pen, 
I  never  did  a  more  unpatriotic,  contemptible 
thing  in  my  life  than  I  did  when  I  wrapped 
that  flag  around  me  and  dared  you  to  molest 
me.  It  was  a  cowardly  use  to  make  of  the 
Stars  and  Stripes.  Moreover,  I  did  it  delib- 
erately, and  you — you  acted  on  the  impulse  of 
the  moment.  It  was  I  who  committed  the  real 
fault,  and  it  has  been  you  who  have  suffered 
for  it." 

"Well,  I  gave  you  a  pretty  good  punching, 
didn't  I?" 

"Yes,  but  the  punching  you  gave  me  was 
not  a  thousandth  part  of  what  I  deserved ;  and, 
if  you  think  it  would  even  matters  up  any,  I'd 
be  perfectly  willing  to  stand  up  tonight  and 


THE  FLAG  237 

let  you  knock  me  down  a  dozen  times.  Since 
this  war  came  on  I've  despised  myself  more 
than  I  can  tell  you  for  my  treatment  of  the 
flag  that  day,  and  for  my  treatment  of  you 
ever  since." 

That  he  was  in  dead  earnest  there  could  be 
no  doubt.  Phlegmatic  and  conservative  by 
nature,  when  he  was  once  roused  he  was  not 
easily  suppressed.  Pen  began  to  feel  sorry 
for  him. 

"You're  too  hard  on  yourself,"  he  said.  "I 
think  you  did  make  a  mistake  that  day,  so  did 
I.  But  we  were  both  kids,  and  in  a  way  we 
were  irresponsible." 

"Yes,  I  know.  There's  something  in  that, 
to  be  sure.  But  that  doesn't  excuse  me  for 
letting  the  thing  go  as  I  got  older  and  knew 
better,  and  letting  you  bear  all  the  blame  and 
all  the  punishment,  and  never  lifting  a  finger 
to  try  to  help  you  out.  That  was  mean  and 
contemptible." 

"Well,  it's  all  over  now,  so  forget  it." 

"But  I  haven't  been  able  to  forget  it.  I've 
thought  of  it  night  and  day  for  a  year.  A 
dozen  times  I've  started  to  hunt  you  up  and 


238  THE  FLAG 

tell  you  what  I'm  telling  you  to-night,  and 
every  time  I've  backed  out.  I  couldn't  bear 
to  face  the  music.  And  when  I  heard  that 
they  turned  you  down  when  you  tried  to  enlist 
in  the  Guard  at  Lowbridge,  on  account  of  the 
old  trouble,  that  capped  the  climax.  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer;  I  felt  that  I  had  to  shoul- 
der my  part  of  that  burden  somehow,  and  that 
the  very  best  way  for  me  to  do  it  was  to  go 
and  fight;  and  if  I  couldn't  fight  under  my 
own  flag,  then  to  go  and  fight  under  the  next 
best  flag,  the  Union  Jack.  I  felt  that  after 
I'd  had  my  baptism  of  fire  I'd  have  the  face 
and  courage  to  go  to  you  and  tell  you  what 
I've  been  telling  you  now.  But  I'm  glad  it's 
over.  My  soul!  I'm  glad  it's  over!" 

He  dropped  into  a  chair  by  the  table  and 
rested  his  head  on  his  open  hand  as  though  the 
recital  of  his  story  had  exhausted  him.  Pen 
stood  over  him  and  laid  a  comforting  arm  about 
his  shoulder. 

"It's  all  right,  old  man!"  he  said.  "You've 
done  the  fair  thing,  and  a  great  lot  more. 
Now  let's  call  quits  and  talk  about  something 
else.  When  did  you  come  up  here?" 


THE  FLAG  239 

"Five  days  ago.  I'm  just  getting  into  the 
swing." 

"Well,  you're  exactly  the  right  sort.  I'm 
mighty  glad  you're  here.  We'll  fix  it  so  we 
can  be  in  the  same  company,  and  bunk  to- 
gether. What  do  you  say?" 

"Splendid!  if  you're  willing.  Can  it  be 
done?  I'm  in  company  M  of  the  — th  Bat- 
talion." 

"I  know  of  the  same  thing  having  been  done 
since  I've  been  here.  We'll  try  it  on,  any- 
way." 

They  did  try  it  on,  and  three  days  later  the 
transfer  was  made.  After  that  they  were 
comrades  indeed,  occupying  the  same  quarters, 
marching  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  each  other 
in  the  ranks,  sharing  with  each  other  all  the 
comforts  and  privations  of  life  in  the  barracks, 
moved  by  a  common  impulse  of  patriotism  and 
chivalry,  longing  for  the  day  to  come  when 
they  could  prove  their  mettle  under  fire. 

But  it  was  not  until  February  1916  that 
they  went  abroad.  After  three  months  of  in- 
tensive training  they  were  hardened,  supple, 
and  skillful.  But  their  military  education  was 


240  THE  FLAG 

not  yet  complete.  Commanders  of  armies 
know  that  raw  or  semi-raw  troops  are  worse 
than  useless  in  modern  warfare.  Soldiers  in 
these  days  must  know  their  business  thoroughly 
if  they  are  to  meet  an  enemy  on  equal  terms. 
They  must  be  artisans  as  well  as  soldiers,  la- 
borers as  well  as  riflemen,  human  machines 
compounded  of  blood  and  courage. 

So,  in  a  great  camp  not  far  from  London, 
there  were  three  months  more  of  drill  and  dis- 
cipline and  drastic  preparation  for  the  firing 
line. 

But  at  last,  in  late  May,  when  the  young 
grass  was  green  on  England's  lawns,  and  the 
wings  of  birds  were  flashing  everywhere  in  the 
sunshine,  and  nature  was  rioting  in  leaf  and 
flower,  a  troop-ship,  laden  to  the  gunwales 
with  the  finest  and  the  best  of  Canada's  young 
patriots  and  many  of  the  most  stalwart  youth 
of  the  States,  landed  on  the  welcoming  shore 
of  France.  In  England  evidences  of  the  great 
war  had  been  marked,  abundant  and  harrow- 
ing. But  here,  in  the  country  whose  soil  had 
been  invaded,  the  grim  and  stirring  actualities 
of  the  mighty  conflict  were  brought  home  to 


THE  FLAG  241 

the  onlooker  with  startling  distinctness.  At 
the  railroad  station,  where  the  troops  entrained 
for  the  front,  every  sight  and  sound  was  elo- 
quent with  the  tenseness  of  preparation  and 
the  tragedy  of  the  long  fight.  Soldiers  were 
everywhere.  Coats  of  blue,  trousers  of  red, 
jackets  of  green,  gave  color  and  variety  to 
the  prevailing  mass  of  sober  khaki.  Here  too, 
dotting  the  hurrying  throng,  were  the  pathetic 
figures  of  the  stricken  and  wounded,  haggard, 
bandaged,  limping,  maimed,  on  canes  and 
crutches,  back  from  the  front,  released  from 
the  hospitals,  seeking  the  rest  and  quiet  that 
their  sacrifices  and  heroism  had  so  well  earned. 
And  here  too,  ministering  to  the  needs  of  the 
suffering  and  the  helpless,  were  many  of  the 
white-robed  nurses  of  the  Red  Cross. 

It  was  evening  when  the  train  bearing  the 
first  section  of  the  — th  Battalion  of  Canadian 
Light  Infantry  to  which  Pen  and  Aleck  be- 
longed steamed  slowly  out  of  the  station.  All 
night,  in  the  darkness,  across  the  fields  and 
through  the  fine  old  forests  of  northern  France 
the  slow  rumble  of  the  coaches,  interrupted  by 
many  stops,  kept  up.  But  in  the  gray  of 


242  THE  FLAG 

the  early  morning,  a  short  distance  beyond 
Amiens,  in  the  midst  of  a  mist  covered  meadow, 
the  train  pulled  up  for  the  last  time.  This  had 
been  fighting  ground.  Here  the  invading 
hosts  of  Germany  had  been  met  and  driven 
back.  Ruined  farm  houses,  shattered  trees, 
lines  of  old  trenches  scarring  the  surface  of 
the  meadow,  all  told  their  eloquent  tale  of  ruth- 
less and  devastating  war.  And  yonder,  in  the 
valley,  the  slow-moving  Somme  wound  its 
shadowy  way  between  green  banks  and  over- 
hanging foliage  as  peacefully  and  beautifully 
as  though  its  silent  waters  had  never  been 
flecked  with  the  blood  of  dying  men.  Even 
now,  as  the  troops  detrained  and  marched  to 
the  sections  of  the  field  assigned  them,  the  dull 
and  continuous  roar  of  cannon  in  the  distance 
came  to  their  ears  with  menacing  distinctness. 

"It's  the  thunder  of  the  guns!"  exclaimed 
Pen.  "I  hope  to-morrow  finds  us  where 
they're  firing  them." 

"I'm  with  you,"  responded  Aleck.  "I  shall 
be  frightened  to  death  when  they  first  put  me 
under  fire,  but  the  sooner  I'm  hardened  to  it 
the  better." 


THE  FLAG  243 

"Tut!  You'll  be  as  brave  as  a  lion.  It's 
your  kind  that  wins  battles." 

Pen  turned  his  face  toward  a  horizon  lost 
in  a  haze  of  smoke,  and  the  look  in  his  eyes 
showed  that  he  at  least,  would  be  no  coward 
when  the  supreme  moment  came.  Lieutenant 
Davis  of  their  company  strolled  by ;  impatiently 
waiting  for  further  orders.  He  was  a  strict 
disciplinarian  indeed,  but  he  was  very  human 
and  his  men  all  loved  him.  Pen  pointed  in  the 
direction  from  which  came  the  muffled  sounds 
of  warfare. 

"When  shall  we  be  there,  Lieutenant?"  he 
asked. 

"I  don't  know,  Butler,"  was  the  response. 
"It  may  be  to-morrow;  it  may  be  next  month. 
Only  those  in  high  command  know  and  they're 
not  telling.  We  may  camp  right  here  fop 
weeks." 

But  they  did  not  camp  there.  In  the  early 
evening  there  came  marching  orders,  and,  un- 
der cover  of  darkness,  the  entire  battalion 
swung  into  a  muddy  and  congested  road  and 
tramped  along  it  for  many  hours.  But  they 
got  no  nearer  to  the  fighting  line.  Weary, 


244  THE  FLAG 

hungry  and  thirsty,  they  stopped  at  last  on 
the  face  of  a  gently  sloping  hill  protected  from 
the  north  by  a  forest  which  had  not  yet  suffered 
destruction  either  at  the  hands  of  sappers  or 
from  the  violence  of  shells.  It  was  apparent 
that  this  had  been  a  camp  for  a  large  body  of 
troops  before  the  advancement  of  the  lines. 
It  was  deserted  now,  but  there  were  many 
caves  in  the  hillside,  and  hundreds  of  little 
huts  made  of  earth  and  wood  under  the 
sheltering  trunks  and  branches  of  the  trees. 
It  was  in  one  of  these  huts  that  Pen  and  Aleck, 
together  with  four  of  their  comrades,  were  bil- 
leted. It  was  not  long  after  their  arrival  be- 
fore hastily  built  fires  were  burning,  and  cof- 
fee, hot  and  fragrant,  was  brewing,  to  refresh 
the  tired  bodies  of  the  men,  until  the  arrival 
of  the  provision  trains  should  supply  them  with 
a  more  substantial  breakfast.  There  was 
plenty  of  straw,  however,  and  on  that  the 
weary  troops  threw  themselves  down  and 
slept. 

At  this  camp  the  battalion  remained  until 
the  middle  of  June.  There  were  drills,  inarch- 
ing and  battalion  maneuvers  by  day,  such 


THE  FLAG  245 

recreation  in  the  evenings  as  camp  life  could 
afford,  sound  sleeping  on  beds  of  straw  at 
night,  and  always,  from  the  distance,  some- 
times loud  and  continuous,  sometimes  faint  and 
occasional,  the  thunder  of  the  guns.  And  al- 
ways, too,  along  the  muddy  high-road  at  the 
foot  of  the  slope,  a  never-ending  procession  of 
provision  and  munition  trains  laboring  toward 
the  front,  and  the  human  wreckage  of  the  firing 
line,  and  troops  released  from  the  trenches, 
passing  painfully  to  the  rear.  No  wonder  the 
men  grew  impatient  and  longed  for  the  activi- 
ties of  the  front  even  though  their  ears  were 
ever  filled  with  tales  of  horror  from  the  lips 
of  those  who  had  survived  the  ordeal  of  battle. 
But,  soon  after  the  middle  of  June,  their 
desires  were  realized.  Orders  came  to  break 
camp  and  prepare  to  march,  to  what  point 
no  one  seemed  to  know,  but  every  one  hoped 
and  expected  it  would  be  to  the  trenches. 
There  was  a  day  of  bustle  and  hurry.  The 
men  stocked  up  their  haversacks,  filled  their 
canteens  and  cartridge-boxes,  put  their  guns 
in  complete  readiness,  and  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  were  assembled  and  began  their 


246  THE  FLAG 

march.  The  road  was  ankle-deep  with  mud, 
for  there  had  been  much  rain,  and  it  was  con- 
gested with  endless  convoys.  There  were 
many  delays.  A  heavy  mist  fell  and  added  to 
the  uncertainty,  the  weariness  and  discomfort. 
But  no  complaint  escaped  from  any  man's 
lips,  for  they  all  felt  that  at  last  they  were 
going  into  action.  Four  hours  of  marching 
brought  them  into  the  neighborhood  of  the  Brit- 
ish heavy  artillery  concealed  under  branches 
broken  from  trees  or  in  mud  huts,  directing 
their  fire  on  the  enemy's  lines  by  the  aid  of 
signals  from  lookouts  far  in  advance  or  in  the 
air.  The  noise  of  these  big  guns  was  terrific, 
but  inspiring.  At  nine  o'clock  there  was  a 
halt  of  sufficient  length  to  serve  the  men  with 
coffee  and  bread,  and  then  the  march  was  re- 
sumed. By  and  by  shells  from  the  guns  of 
the  Allies  began  to  shriek  high  over  the  heads 
of  the  marching  men,  and  were  replied  to  by 
the  enemy  shells  humming  and  whining  by, 
seeking  out  and  endeavoring  to  silence  the 
Allied  artillery.  Now  and  then  one  of  these 
missiles  would  burst  in  the  rear  of  the  column, 
sending  up  a  glare  of  flame  and  a  cloud  of  dust 


THE  FLAG  247 

and  debris,  but  at  what  cost  in  life  no  one  in  the 
line  knew. 

As  the  men  advanced  the  mud  grew  deeper, 
the  way  narrower,  the  congestion  greater. 
The  passing  of  enemy  shells  was  less  frequent, 
but  precautions  for  safety  were  increased.  Ad- 
vantage was  taken  of  ravines,  of  fences,  of 
fourth  and  fifth  line  trenches.  The  troops 
were  not  beyond  range  of  the  German  sharp- 
shooters, and  the  swish  of  bullets  was  heard  oc- 
casionally in  the  air  above  the  heads  of  the 
marchers. 

It  was  toward  morning  that  the  destination 
of  the  column  was  reached,  and,  in  single  file, 
the  men  of  Pen's  section  passed  down  an  incline 
into  their  first  communicating  trench,  and  then 
past  a  maze  of  lateral  trenches  to  the  opening 
into  the  salients  they  were  to  supply.  It  was 
here  that  the  soldiers  whom  they  were  to  re- 
lieve filed  out  by  them.  Going  forward,  they 
took  the  places  of  the  retiring  section.  At  last 
they  were  in  the  first  line  trench,  with  the 
enemy  trenches  scarcely  a  hundred  meters  in 
front  of  them.  Sentries  were  placed  at  the 
loop-holes  made  in  the  earth  embankment,  and 


248  THE  FLAG 

the  remainder  of  the  section  retired  to  their 
dug-outs.  These  under-ground  rooms,  built 
down  and  out  from  the  trench,  and  bomb-proof, 
were  capable  of  holding  from  eight  to  a 
dozen  men.  They  were  carpeted  with  straw, 
some  of  them  had  shelves,  and  in  many  of  them 
discarded  bayonets  were  driven  into  the  walls 
to  form  hooks.  It  was  in  these  places  that 
the  men  who  were  off  duty  rested  and  ate  and 
slept. 

In  the  gray  light  of  the  early  June  morning, 
Pen,  who  had  been  posted  at  one  of  the  loop- 
holes as  a  listening  sentry,  looked  out  to  see 
what  lay  in  front  of  him.  But  the  most  that 
could  be  seen  were  the  long  and  winding  earth 
embankments  that  marked  the  lines  of  the  Ger- 
man entrenchments,  and  between,  on  "no  man's 
land,"  a  maze  of  barbed  wire  entanglements. 
No  living  human  being  was  in  sight,  but,  at 
one  place,  crumpled  up,  partly  sustained  by 
meshes  of  wire,  there  was  a  ragged  heap,  the 
sight  of  which  sent  a  chill  to  the  boy's  heart. 
It  required  no  second  glance  to  discover  that 
this  was  the  unrescued  body  of  a  soldier  who 
had  been  too  daring.  Pen  had  seen  his  first 


THE  FLAG  249 

war-slain  corpse.  Indeed,  war  was  becoming 
to  him  now  a  reality.  For,  suddenly,  a  little 
of  the  soft  earth  at  his  side  spattered  into  his 
face.  An  enemy  bullet  had  struck  there.  In 
his  eagerness  to  see  he  had  exposed  too  much 
of  his  head  and  shoulders  and  had  become  the 
target  for  Boche  sharpshooters.  Other  bul- 
lets pattered  down  around  his  loop-hole,  and 
only  by  seeking  the  quick  shelter  of  the  trench 
did  he  escape  injury  or  death.  It  was  his  first 
lesson  in  self -protection  on  the  firing-line,  but 
he  profited  by  it.  Two  hours  later  he  and 
Aleck,  who  had  also  been  doing  duty  on  a  look- 
out platform,  were  relieved  by  their  comrades, 
and  threw  themselves  down  on  the  straw  of 
their  dug-out  and,  wearied  to  the  point  of  ex- 
haustion, slept  soundly.  With  the  dawning  of 
day  the  noise  of  cannonading  increased,  the 
whining  of  deadly  missiles  grew  more  inces- 
sant, the  crash  of  exploding  shells  more  fre- 
quent, but,  until  they  were  roused  by  their  ser- 
geant and  bidden  to  eat  their  breakfast  which 
had  been  brought  by  a  ration-party,  both  boys 
slept.  So  soon  had  the  menacing  sounds  of 
war  become  familiar  to  their  ears.  After 


250  THE  FLAG 

breakfast  those  who  were  not  on  sentry  duty 
were  put  to  work  repairing  trenches,  filling 
sand-bags,  enlarging  dugouts,  pumping  water 
from  low  places,  cleaning  rifles,  performing  a 
hundred  tasks  which  were  necessary  to  make 
trench  life  endurable  and  reasonably  safe. 
The  food  was  good  and  was  still  abundant. 
There  were  fresh  meat,  bacon,  canned  soups 
and  vegetables,  bread,  butter,  jam  and  coffee. 
The  two  hours  on  sentry  duty  were  by  far  the 
most  strenuous  in  the  daily  routine.  To  re- 
main in  one  position,  with  eyes  glued  to  the 
narrow  slit  in  the  embankment,  gas  mask  at 
hand,  hand-grenades  in  readiness,  rifle  in  posi- 
tion ready  to  be  discharged  on  the  second,  the 
fate  of  the  whole  army  perhaps  resting  on  one 
man's  vigilance,  this  was  no  easy  task. 

But  there  were  no  complaints.  The  men 
were  on  the  firing  line,  ready  to  obey  orders, 
whatever  they  might  be;  they  asked  only  one 
thing  more,  and  that  was  to  fight.  But,  in 
these  days,  there  was  a  lull  in  the  actual  fight- 
ing. The  "big  drive"  had  not  yet  been 
launched.  Aside  from  a  skirmish  now  and 
then,  a  fierce  bombardment  for  a  few  hours, 


THE  FLAG  251 

an  attempt,  on  one  side  or  the  other,  to  rush  a 
trench,  there  was  little  aggressive  warfare  in 
this  neighborhood,  and  few  casualties ;  nor  was 
there  any  material  variance  in  the  front  lines 
of  trenches  on  either  side.  There  were  six 
days  of  this  kind  of  duty  and  then  the  men  of 
Pen's  company  were  relieved  and  sent  to  the 
rear  for  a  week's  rest,  to  act  as  reserves,  and 
to  be  called  during  that  time  only  in  case  of 
an  emergency.  But  the  following  week  saw 
them  again  at  the  front ;  not  in  the  same  trench 
where  they  had  first  served,  but  in  an  advanced 
position  farther  to  the  south.  The  trenches 
here  were  not  so  roomy  nor  so  dry  as  had  been 
those  of  the  first  assignment.  There  was  much 
mud,  slippery  and  deep,  to  be  contended  with, 
and  the  walls  at  the  sides  were  continually  cav- 
ing in.  The  duties  of  the  men,  however,  were 
not  materially  different  from  those  with  which 
they  were  already  familiar.  Clashes  had  been 
more  frequent  here,  and  the  dead  bodies  of 
soldiers,  crumpled  up  in  the  trench  or  lying, 
unrescued,  on  the  scarred  and  fire-swept  sur- 
face of  "no  man's  land"  were  not  an  unusual 
sight.  But  the  "rookies"  were  becoming 


252  THE  FLAG 

hardened  now  to  many  of  the  horrors  of  war. 
It  was  while  they  were  in  this  trench  that 
Pen  had  his  "baptism  of  fire."  Late  one  after- 
noon the  German  artillery  began  shelling 
fiercely  the  first  line  of  Allied  trenches.  Aleck 
and  Pen  were  both  on  sentry  duty.  Just  be- 
yond them  Lieutenant  Davis  stood  at  an  ad- 
vanced lookout  post  intent  on  studying  the 
outside  situation  by  means  of  his  periscope. 
At  irregular  intervals  machine  guns,  deftly 
hidden  from  the  sight  of  the  enemy,  poked 
their  menacing  mouths  toward  the  Boche  lines. 
Now  and  then,  finding  its  mark  at  some  point 
in  the  course  of  the  winding  trench,  an  enemy 
shell  would  explode  throwing  clouds  of  dust 
and  debris  into  the  air,  wrecking  the  earth- 
works where  it  fell,  taking  its  toll  of  human 
lives  and  limbs.  Twice  Pen  was  thrown  off 
his  feet  by  the  shock  of  near-by  explosions,  but 
he  escaped  injury,  as  did  also  Aleck.  It  was 
apparent  that  the  Germans  were  either  making 
a  feint  for  the  purpose  of  attacking  at  some 
unexpected  point,  or  else  that  they  were  pre- 
paring for  a  charge  on  the  trenches  which  they 
were  bombarding.  It  developed  that  the  latter 


THE  FLAG  253 

theory  was  the  correct  one,  for,  after  a  while, 
they  directed  their  fire  to  the  rear  of  the  first 
line  trenches,  and  set  up  a  still  more  furious 
bombardment.  This,  as  eveiy  one  knew,  was 
for  the  purpose  of  preventing  the  British  from 
bringing  up  reinforcements,  and  to  give  their 
own  troops  the  opportunity  to  charge  into  the 
Allied  front.  The  charge  was  not  long  de- 
layed. A  gray  wave  poured  over  the  parapet 
of  the  German  first  line  trench,  rolled  through 
the  prepared  openings  in  their  own  barbed- 
wire  entanglements,  and  advanced,  alternately 
running  and  creeping,  toward  the  Allied  line. 
But  when  the  Germans  were  once  in  the  open 
a  terrible  thing  happened  to  them.  The  ma- 
chine guns  from  all  along  the  British  trenches 
met  them  with  a  rain  of  bullets  that  mowed 
them  down  as  grain  falls  to  the  blades  of  the 
farmer's  reaper.  The  rifles  of  the  men  in 
khaki,  resting  on  the  benches  of  the  parapet, 
spit  constant  and  deadly  fire  at  them.  The  ar- 
tillery to  the  rear,  in  constant  telephone  touch 
with  the  first  line,  quickly  found  the  range  and 
dropped  shells  into  the  charging  mass  with  ter- 
rible effect.  A  second  body  of  gray-clad  sol- 


254  THE  FLAG 

diers  with  fixed  bayonets  swarmed  out  of  the 
German  trenches  and  came  to  the  help  of  their 
hard-beset  comrades,  and  met  a  similar  fate. 
Then  a  third  platoon  came  on,  and  a  fourth. 
The  resources  of  the  enemy  in  men  seemed 
endless,  their  persistence  remarkable,  their 
recklessness  in  the  face  of  sure  death  almost 
unbelievable.  The  noise  was  terrific;  the  con- 
stant rattle  of  the  machine  guns,  the  spitting 
of  rifles,  the  booming  of  the  artillery,  the  whin- 
ing and  crashing  of  shells,  the  yells  of  the 
charging  troops,  the  shrieks  of  the  wounded. 
In  the  British  trenches  the  men  were  assembled, 
ready  to  pour  out  at  the  whistle  and  repel  the 
assault  on  open  ground;  but  it  was  not  neces- 
sary for  them  to  do  so.  The  German  ranks, 
unable  to  withstand  the  fire  that  devoured  them 
as  they  met  it,  a  fire  that  it  was  humanly  im- 
possible for  any  troops  to  withstand,  turned 
back  and  sought  the  shelter  of  their  trenches, 
leaving  their  dead  and  wounded  piled  and 
sprawled  by  the  hundreds  on  the  ground  they 
had  failed  to  cross. 

The  casualties  among  the  Canadian  troops 
were  not  large,  and  they  had  occurred  mostly 


THE  FLAG  255 

before  the  charge  had  been  launched,  but  it 
was  in  deep  sorrow  that  the  men  from  across 
the  ocean  gathered  up  from  the  shattered 
trenches  the  pierced  and  broken  bodies  of  their 
comrades,  and  sent  them  to  the  rear,  the  living 
to  be  cared  for  in  the  hospitals,  the  dead  to  be 
buried  on  the  soil  of  France  where  they  had 
bravely  fought  and  nobly  died. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  great  Somme  drive  began  on  July  1, 
1916,  after  a  week's  devastating  bombardment 
of  the  German  lines.  The  enemy  trenches  had 
been  torn  and  shattered,  and  when  the  Allied 
armies,  in  great  numbers  and  with  abundant 
ammunition,  swept  out  and  down  upon  them, 
the  impetus  and  force  of  the  advance  were  irre- 
sistible. Trenches  were  blotted  out.  Towns 
were  taken.  The  German  lines  melted  away 
over  wide  areas.  Victory,  decisive  and  per- 
manent, rested  on  the  Allied  banners.  On  the 
third  of  the  month  the  British  took  La  Boiselle 
and  four  thousand  three  hundred  prisoners. 
But  on  the  fourth  the  enemy  troops  turned  and 
fought  like  wild  animals  at  bay.  This  was  the 
day  on  which  Aleck  received  his  wounds.  In 
the  morning,  as  they  lay  sprawled  in  a  ravine 
which  had  been  captured  the  night  before,  wait- 
ing for  orders  to  push  still  farther  on,  Aleck 
had  said  to  Pen: 


THE  FLAG  257 

"You  know  what  day  this  is,  comrade?" 

"Indeed  I  do!"  was  the  reply,  "it's  Inde- 
pendence Day." 

"Right  you  are.  I  wish  I  could  get  sight 
of  an  American  flag.  It  will  be  the  first  time 
in  my  life  that  I  haven't  seen  'Old  Glory'  some- 
where on  the  Fourth  of  July." 

"True.  Back  yonder  in  the  States  they'll 
be  having  parades  and  speeches,  and  the  flag 
will  be  flying  from  every  masthead.  If  only 
they  could  be  made  to  realize  that  it's  really 
that  flag  that  we're  fighting  for,  you  and  I,  and 
drop  this  cloak  of  neutrality,  and  come  over 
here  as  a  nation  and  help  us,  wouldn't  that  be 
glorious?" 

Pen's  face  was  grimy,  his  uniform  was  torn 
and  stained,  his  hair  was  tousled;  somewhere 
he  had  lost  his  cap  and  the  times  were  too 
strenuous  to  get  another ;  but  out  from  his  eyes 
there  shone  a  tenderness,  a  longing,  a  deter- 
mination that  marked  him  as  a  true  soldier  of 
the  American  Legion. 

The  cannonading  had  again  begun.  Shells 
were  whining  and  whistling  above  their  heads 
and  exploding  in  the  enemy  lines  not  far  be- 


258  THE  FLAG 

yond.  Off  to  the  right,  a  village  in  flames  sent 
up  great  clouds  of  smoke,  and  the  roar  of  the 
conflagration  was  joined  to  the  noise  of  artil- 
lery. Back  of  the  lines  the  ground  was  strewn 
with  wreckage,  pitted  with  shell-holes,  ghastly 
with  its  harvest  of  bodies  of  the  slain.  With 
rifles  gripped,  bayonets  ready,  hand  grenades 
near  by,  the  boys  lay  waiting  for  the  word  of 
command. 

"Aleck?" 

"Yes,  comrade." 

"Over  yonder  at  Chestnut  Hill,  on  the 
school-grounds,  the  flag  will  be  floating  from 
the  top  of  the  staff  to-day." 

"Yes,  I  know.  It  will  be  a  pretty  sight.  I 
used  to  be  ashamed  to  look  at  it.  You  know 
why.  To-day  I  could  stare  at  it  and  glory  in 
it  for  hours." 

"That  flag  at  the  schoolhouse  is  the  most 
beautiful  American  flag  in  the  world.  I  never 
saw  it  but  once,  but  it  thrilled  me  then  unspeak- 
ably. I  have  loved  it  ever  since.  I  can  think 
of  but  one  other  sight  that  would  be  more  beau- 
tiful and  thrilling." 

"And  what  is  that?" 


THE  FLAG  259 

"To  see  'Old  Glory'  waving  from  the  top  of 
a  flag-staff  here  on  the  soil  of  France,  signify- 
ing that  our  country  has  taken  up  the  cause  of 
the  Allies  and  thrown  herself,  with  all  her  heart 
and  might  into  this  war." 

"Wait ;  you  will  see  it,  comrade,  you  will  see 
it.  It  can't  be  delayed  for  long  now." 

Then  the  order  came  to  advance.  In  a 
storm  of  shrapnel,  bullets  and  flame,  the  Brit- 
ish host  swept  down  again  upon  the  foe.  The 
Germans  gave  desperate  and  deadly  resistance. 
They  fought  hand  to  hand,  with  bayonets  and 
clubbed  muskets  and  grenades.  It  was  a  death 
grapple,  with  decisive  victory  on  neither  side. 
In  the  wild  onrush  and  terrific  clash,  Pen  lost 
touch  with  his  comrade.  Only  once  he  saw 
him  after  the  charge  was  launched.  Aleck 
waved  to  him  and  smiled  and  plunged  into  the 
thick  of  the  carnage.  Two  hours  later,  stag- 
gering with  shock  and  heat  and  superficial 
wounds,  and  choking  with  thirst  and  the  smoke 
and  dust  of  conflict,  Pen  made  his  way  with  the 
survivors  of  his  section  back  over  the  ground 
that  had  been  traversed,  to  find  rest  and  re- 
freshment at  the  rear.  They  had  been  relieved 


260  THE  FLAG 

by  fresh  troops  sent  in  to  hold  the  narrow  strip 
of  territory  that  had  been  gained.  Stumbling 
along  over  the  torn  soil,  through  wreckage  in- 
describable, among  dead  bodies  lying  singly 
and  in  heaps,  stopping  now  and  then  to  aid  a 
dying  man,  or  give  such  comfort  as  he  could 
to  a  wounded  and  helpless  comrade,  Pen  strug- 
gled slowly  and  painfully  toward  a  resting 
spot. 

At  one  place,  through  eyes  half  blinded  by 
sweat  and  smoke  and  trickling  blood,  he  saw  a 
man  partially  reclining  against  a  post  to  which 
a  tangled  and  broken  mass  of  barbed  wire  was 
still  clinging.  The  man  was  evidently  mak- 
ing weak  and  ineffectual  attempts  to  care  for 
his  own  wounds.  Pen  stopped  to  assist  him  if 
he  could.  Looking  down  into  his  face  he  saw 
that  it  was  Aleck.  He  was  not  shocked,  nor 
did  he  manifest  any  surprise.  He  had  seen  too 
much  of  the  actuality  of  war  to  be  startled  now 
by  any  sight  or  sound  however  terrible.  He 
simply  said: 

"Well,  old  man,  I  see  they  got  you.  Here, 
let  me  help." 

He  knelt  down  by  the  side  of  his  wounded 


THE  FLAG  261 

comrade,  and,  with  shaking  hands,  endeavored 
to  staunch  the  flow  of  blood  and  to  bind  up  two 
dreadful  wounds,  a  gaping,  jagged  hole  in  the 
breast  beneath  the  shoulder,  made  by  the  thrust 
and  twist  of  a  Boche  bayonet,  and  a  torn  and 
shattered  knee. 

Aleck  did  not  at  first  recognize  him,  but  a 
moment  later,  seeing  who  it  was  that  had 
stopped  to  help  him,  he  reached  up  a  trembling 
hand  and  laid  it  on  his  friend's  face.  Some- 
thing in  his  mouth  or  throat  had  gone  wrong 
and  he  could  not  speak. 

After  exhausting  his  comrade's  emergency 
kit  and  his  own  in  first  aid  treatment  of  the 
wounds,  Pen  called  for  assistance  to  a  soldier 
who  was  staggering  by,  and  between  them, 
across  the  torn  field  with  its  crimson  and 
ghastly  fruitage,  with  fragments  of  shrapnel 
hurtling  above  them,  and  with  bodies  of  sol- 
diers, dead  and  living,  tossed  into  the  murky 
air  by  constantly  exploding  shells,  they  half 
carried,  half  dragged  the  wounded  man  across 
the  ravine  and  up  the  hill  to  a  captured  Ger- 
man trench,  and  turned  him  over  to  the 
stretcher-bearers  to  be  taken  to  the  ambulances. 


262  THE  FLAG 

It  was  after  this  day's  fighting  that  Pen, 
"for  conspicuous  bravery  in  action,"  was  pro- 
moted to  the  rank  of  sergeant.  He  wore  his 
honor  modestly.  It  gave  him,  perhaps,  a  bet- 
ter opportunity  to  do  good  work  for  Britain 
and  for  France,  and  to  rehabilitate  himself  in 
the  eyes  of  his  own  countrymen;  otherwise  it 
did  not  matter. 

So  the  fighting  on  the  Somme  went  on  day 
after  day,  week  after  week,  persistent,  des- 
perate, bloody.  It  was  early  in  August,  after 
the  terrific  battle  by  which  the  whole  of  Delville 
Wood  passed  into  British  control,  that  Pen's 
battalion  was  relieved  and  sent  far  to  the  rear 
for  a  long  rest.  Even  unwounded  men  can- 
not stand  the  strain  of  continuous  battle  for 
many  weeks  at  a  stretch.  The  nervous  sys- 
tem, delicate  and  complicated,  must  have  re- 
lief, or  the  physical  organization  will  collapse, 
or  the  mind  give  way,  or  both. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  night's  march  from 
the  front  the  battalion  camped  in  the  streets  of 
a  little,  half-wrecked  village  on  the  banks  of 
the  Avre.  Up  on  the  hillside  was  a  long, 
rambling  building  which  had  once  been  a  con- 


THE  FLAG  263 

vent  but  was  now  a  hospital.  Pen  knew  that 
somewhere  in  a  hospital  back  of  the  Somme 
Aleck  was  still  lying,  too  ill  to  be  moved  far- 
ther to  the  rear.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he 
might  find  him  here.  So,  in  the  hazy  moon- 
light of  the  August  evening,  having  obtained 
the  necessary  leave,  he  set  out  to  make  inquiry. 
He  passed  up  the  winding  walk,  under  a 
canopy  of  fine  old  trees,  and  reached  the  en- 
trance to  the  building.  From  the  porch,  look- 
ing to  the  north,  toward  the  valley  of  the 
Somme,  he  could  see  on  the  horizon  the  dull 
gleam  of  red  that  marked  the  battle  line,  and 
he  could  hear  the  faint  reverberations  of  the 
big  guns  that  told  of  the  fighting  still  in  prog- 
ress. But  here  it  was  very  quiet,  very  peace- 
ful, very  beautiful.  For  the  first  time  since 
his  entrance  into  the  great  struggle  he  longed 
for  an  end  of  the  strife,  and  a  return  to  the 
calm,  sweet,  lovely  things  of  life.  But  he  did 
not  permit  this  mood  to  remain  long  with  him. 
He  knew  that  the  war  must  go  on  until  the 
spirit  that  launched  it  was  subdued  and 
crushed,  and  that  he  must  go  with  it  to  what- 
ever end  God  might  will. 


264  THE  FLAG 

He  found  Aleck  there.  He  had  felt  that 
he  would,  and  while  he  was  delighted  he  was 
not  greatly  surprised.  There  was  little  emo- 
tion manifested  at  the  meeting  of  the  two  boys. 
The  horrors  of  war  were  too  close  and  too  vivid 
yet  for  that.  But  the  fact  that  they  were  glad 
to  look  again  into  one  another's  eyes  admitted 
of  no  douht.  Aleck  had  recovered  the  use  of 
his  voice,  but  he  was  still  too  weak  to  talk  at 
any  length.  The  bayonet  wound  in  his  shoul- 
der had  healed  nicely,  but  his  shattered  knee 
had  come  terribly  near  to  costing  him  his  life. 
There  had  been  infection.  Amputation  of  the 
leg  had  been  imminent.  The  surgeons  and  the 
nurses  had  struggled  with  the  case  for  weeks 
and  had  finally  conquered. 

"I  shall  still  have  two  legs,"  said  Aleck 
jocosely,  "and  I'll  be  glad  of  that;  but  I'm 
afraid  this  one  will  be  a  weak  brother  for  a 
long  time.  I  won't  be  kicking  football  this 
fall,  anyway." 

"It's  the  fortune  of  war,"  replied  Pen. 

"I  know.  I'm  not  complaining,  and  I'm  not 
sorry.  I've  had  my  chance.  I've  seen  war. 
I've  fought  for  France.  I'm  satisfied." 


THE  FLAG  265 

He  lay  back  on  the  pillow,  pale-faced,  ema- 
ciated, weak;  but  in  his  eyes  was  a  glow  of 
patriotic  pride  in  his  own  suffering,  and  pride 
in  the  knowledge  that  he  had  entered  the  fight 
and  had  fought  bravely  and  well. 

"America  ought  to  be  proud  of  you,"  said 
Pen,  "and  of  all  the  other  boys  from  the  States 
who  have  fought  and  suffered,  and  of  those 
who  have  died  in  this  war.  I  told  you  you'd 
be  no  coward  when  the  time  came  to  fight,  and, 
my  faith!  you  were  not.  I  can  see  you  now, 
with  a  smile  and  a  wave  of  the  hand  plunging 
into  that  bloody  chaos." 

"Thank  you,  comrade!  I  may  never  fight 
again,  but  I  can  go  back  home  now  and  face 
the  flag  and  not  be  ashamed." 

"Indeed,  you  can!  And  when  will  you 
go?" 

"I  don't  know.  They'll  take  me  across  the 
channel  as  soon  as  I'm  able  to  leave  here,  and 
then,  when  I  can  travel  comfortably  I  suppose 
I'll  be  invalided  home." 

"Well,  old  man,  when  you  get  there,  you  say 
to  my  mother  and  my  aunt  Milly,  and  my  dear 
old  grandfather  Butler,  that  when  you  saw  me 


266  THE  FLAG 

last  I  was  well,  and  contented,  and  glad  to  be 
doing  my  bit." 

"I  will,  Pen." 

"And,  Aleck?" 

"Yes,  comrade." 

"If  you  should  chance  to  go  by  the  school- 
house,  and  see  the  old  flag  waving  there,  give  it 
one  loving  glance  for  me,  will  you?" 

"With  all  my  heart!" 

"So,  then,  good-by!" 

"Good-by!" 

It  was  in  the  spacious  grounds  of  an  old 
French  chateau  not  far  from  Beauvais  on  the 
river  Andelle  that  Pen's  battalion  camped  for 
their  period  of  rest  and  recuperation.  There 
were  long,  sunshiny  days,  nights  of  undisturbed 
and  refreshing  sleep,  recreation  and  entertain- 
ment sufficient  to  divert  tired  brains,  and  a 
freedom  from  undue  restraint  that  was  most 
welcome.  Moreover  there  were  letters  and 
parcels  from  home,  with  plenty  of  time  to  read 
them  and  to  re-read  them,  to  dwell  upon  them 
and  to  enjoy  them.  If  the  loved  ones  back  in 
the  quiet  cities  and  villages  and  countryside 
could  only  realize  how  much  letters  and  parcels 


THE  FLAG  267 

from  home  mean  to  the  tired  bodies  and 
strained  nerves  of  the  war-worn  boys  at  the 
front,  there  would  never  be  a  lack  of  these  com- 
forts and  enjoyments  that  go  farther  than  any- 
thing else  to  brighten  the  lives  and  hearten  the 
spirits  of  the  soldier-heroes  in  the  trenches  and 
the  camps. 

Pen  had  his  full  share  of  these  pleasures. 
His  mother,  his  Aunt  Millicent,  Colonel  But- 
ler, and  even  Grandpa  Walker  from  Cobb's 
Corners,  kept  him  supplied  with  news,  admoni- 
tion, encouragement  and  affection.  And  these 
little  waves  of  love  and  commendation,  rolling 
up  to  him  at  irregular  intervals,  were  like  sweet 
and  fragrant  draughts  of  life-giving  air  to 
one  who  for  months  had  breathed  only  the 
smoke  of  battle  and  the  foulness  of  the 
trenches. 

At  the  end  of  August,  orders  came  for  the 
battalion  to  return  to  the  front.  There  were 
two  days  of  bustling  preparation,  and  then  the 
troops  entrained  and  were  carried  back  to 
where  the  noise  of  the  seventy-fives  on  the  one 
side  and  the  seventy-sevens  on  the  other,  came 
rumbling  and  thundering  again  to  their  ears, 


268  THE  FLAG 

and  the  pall  of  smoke  along  the  horizon  marked 
the  location  of  the  firing  line. 

But  their  destination  this  time  was  farther 
to  the  south,  on  the  British  right  wing,  where 
French  and  English  soldiers  touched  elbows 
with  each  other,  and  Canadian  and  Australian 
fraternized  in  a  common  enterprise.  Here 
again  the  old  trench  life  was  resumed ;  sentinel 
duty,  daring  adventures,  wild  charges,  the 
shock  and  din  of  constant  battle,  brief  periods 
of  rest  and  recuperation.  But  the  process  of 
attrition  was  going  on,  the  enemy  was  being 
pushed  back,  inch  by  inch  it  seemed,  but  al- 
ways, eventually,  back.  As  for  Pen,  he  led 
a  charmed  life.  Men  fell  to  right  of  him  and 
to  left  of  him,  and  were  torn  into  shreds  at  his 
back;  but,  save  for  superficial  wounds,  for 
temporary  strangulation  from  gas,  for  momen- 
tary insensibility  from  shock,  he  was  unharmed. 

It  was  in  October,  after  Lieutenant  Davis 
had  been  promoted  to  the  captaincy,  that  Pen 
was  made  second  lieutenant  of  his  company. 
He  well  deserved  the  honor.  There  was  a  lit- 
tle celebration  of  the  event  among  his  men,  for 
his  comrades  all  loved  him  and  honored  him. 


THE  FLAG  269 

They  said  it  would  not  be  long  before  he  would 
be  wearing  the  Victoria  Cross  on  his  breast. 
Yet  few  of  them  had  been  with  him  from  the 
beginning.  Of  those  who  had  landed  with  him 
upon  French  soil  the  preceding  May  only  a 
pitifully  small  percentage  remained.  Killed, 
wounded,  missing,  one  by  one  and  in  groups, 
they  had  dropped  out,  and  the  depleted  ranks 
had  been  filled  with  new  blood. 

In  November  they  were  sent  up  into  the 
Arras  sector,  but  in  December  they  were  back 
again  in  their  old  quarters  on  the  Somme. 
And  yet  it  was  not  their  old  quarters,  for  the 
British  front  had  been  advanced  over  a  wide 
area,  for  many  miles  in  length,  and  imper- 
turbable Tommies  were  now  smoking  their 
pipes  in  many  a  reversed  trench  that  had  there- 
tofore been  occupied  by  gray-clad  Boches. 
But  they  were  not  pleasant  trenches  to  occupy. 
They  were  veiy  narrow  and  very  muddy,  and 
parts  of  the  bodies  of  dead  men  protruded  here 
and  there  from  their  walls  and  parapets. 
Moreover,  in  December  it  is  very  cold  in  north- 
ern France,  and,  muffle  as  they  would,  even  the 
boys  from  Canada  suffered  from  the  severity  of 


270  THE  FLAG 

the  weather.  They  asked  only  to  be  permitted 
to  keep  their  blood  warm  by  aggressive  action 
against  their  enemy.  And,  just  before  the 
Christmas  holidays,  the  aggressive  action  they 
had  longed  for  came. 

It  was  no  great  battle,  no  important  historic 
event,  just  an  incident  in  the  policy  of  attrition 
which  was  constantly  wearing  away  the  Ger- 
man lines.  An  attempt  was  to  be  made  to 
drive  a  wedge  into  the  enemy's  front  at  a  cer- 
tain vital  point,  and,  in  order  to  cover  the  real 
thrust,  several  feints  were  to  be  made  at  other 
places  not  far  away.  One  of  these  latter  ex- 
peditions had  been  intrusted  to  a  part  of  Pen's 
battalion.  At  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the 
British  artillery  was  to  bombard  the  first  line 
of  enemy  trenches  for  an  hour  and  a  half. 
Then  the  artillery  fire  was  to  lift  to  the  second 
line,  and  the  Canadian  troops  were  to  rush  the 
first  line  with  the  bayonet,  carry  it,  and  when 
the  artillery  fire  lifted  to  the  third  line  they 
were  to  pass  on  to  the  second  hostile  trench  and 
take  and  hold  that  for  a  sufficient  length  of 
time  to  divert  the  enemy  from  the  point  of  real 
attack,  and  then  they  were  to  withdraw  to  their 


THE  FLAG  271 

own  lines.  Permanent  occupation  of  the  cap- 
tured trenches  at  the  point  seemed  inadvisable 
at  this  time,  if  not  wholly  impossible. 

It  was  not  a  welcome  task  that  had  been  as- 
signed to  these  troops.  Soldiers  like  to  hold 
the  ground  they  have  won  in  any  fight ;  and  to 
retire  after  partial  victory  was  not  to  their  lik- 
ing. But  it  was  part  of  the  game  and  they 
were  content.  So  far  as  his  section  was  con- 
cerned Pen  assembled  his  men,  explained  the 
situation  to  them,  and  told  them  frankly  what 
they  were  expected  to  do. 

"It's  going  to  be  a  very  pretty  fight,"  he 
added,  "probably  the  hardest  tussle  we've  had 
yet.  The  Bodies  are  well  dug  in  over  there, 
and  they're  well  backed  with  artillery,  and 
they're  not  going  to  give  up  those  trenches 
without  a  protest.  Some  of  us  will  not  come 
back;  and  some  of  us  who  do  come  back  will 
never  fight  again.  You  know  that.  But, 
whatever  happens,  Canada  and  the  States  will 
have  no  reason  to  blush  for  us.  We're  fight- 
ing in  a  splendid  cause,  and  we'll  do  our  part 
like  the  soldiers  we  are." 

"Aye!  that   we   will!"     "Right  you  are!" 


272  THE  FLAG 

"Give  us  the  chance!"  "Wherever  you  lead, 
we  follow!" 

It  seemed  as  though  every  man  in  the  sec- 
tion gave  voice  to  his  willingness  and  enthusi- 
asm. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Pen.  "I  knew  you'd 
feel  that  way  about  it.  I've  never  asked  a 
man  of  you  to  go  where  I  wouldn't  go  myself, 
and  I  never  shall.  I  simply  wanted  to  warn 
you  that  it's  going  to  be  a  hot  place  over  there 
to-night,  and  you  must  be  prepared  for  it." 

"We're  ready!  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to 
say  the  word." 

No  undue  familarity  was  intended;  respect 
for  their  commander  was  in  no  degree  lessened, 
but  they  loved  him  and  would  have  followed 
him  anywhere,  and  they  wanted  him  to  know 
it. 

The  unusual  activity  in  the  Allied  trenches, 
observed  by  enemy  aircraft,  combined  with  the 
terrific  cannonading  of  their  lines,  had  evi- 
dently convinced  the  enemy  that  some  aggres- 
sive movement  against  them  was  in  contempla- 
tion, for  their  artillery  fire  now,  at  seven 
o'clock,  was  directed  squarely  upon  the  outer 


THE  FLAG  273 

lines  of  British  trenches,  bringing  havoc  and 
horror  in  the  wake  of  the  exploding  shells. 

It  was  under  this  galling  bombardment  that 
the  men  of  the  second  section  adjusted  their 
packs,  buckled  the  last  strap  of  their  equip- 
ment, took  firm  hold  of  their  rifles,  and 
crouched  against  the  front  wall  of  their  trench, 
ready  for  the  final  spring. 

At  seven-thirty  o'clock  the  order  came.  It 
was  a  sharp  blast  of  a  whistle,  made  by  the  com- 
manding officer.  The  next  moment,  led  by 
Lieutenant  Butler,  the  men  were  up,  sliding 
over  the  parapet,  worming  their  way  through 
gaps  in  their  own  wire  entanglements,  and 
forming  in  the  semblance  of  a  line  outside.  It 
all  took  but  a  minute,  and  then  the  rush  to- 
ward the  enemy  trenches  began.  It  seemed  as 
though  every  gun  of  every  calibre  in  the  Ger- 
man army  was  let  loose  upon  them.  The  artil- 
lery shortened  its  range  and  dropped  exploding 
shells  among  them  with  dreadful  effect.  Ma- 
chine guns  mowed  them  down  in  swaths. 
Hand-grenades  tore  gaps  in  their  ranks. 
Rifle  bullets,  hissing  like  hail,  took  terrible  toll 
of  them.  Out  of  the  blackness  overhead,  lit 


274  THE  FLAG 

with  the  flame  of  explosions,  fell  a  constant 
rain  of  metal,  of  clods  of  earth,  of  fragments 
of  equipment,  of  parts  of  human  bodies.  The 
experience  was  wild  and  terrible  beyond  de- 
scription. 

Pen  took  no  note  of  the  whining  and  crash- 
ing missiles  about  him,  nor  of  the  men  falling 
on  both  sides  of  him,  nor  of  the  shrieking, 
gesticulating  human  beings  behind  him.  Into 
the  face  of  death,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  curtain 
of  fire  before  him,  heroic  and  inspired,  he  led 
the  remnant  of  his  brave  platoon.  Through 
the  gaps  torn  out  of  the  enemy  entanglements 
by  the  preliminary  bombardment,  and  on  into 
the  first  line  of  Boche  entrenchments  they 
pounded  and  pushed  their  way.  Then  came 
fighting  indeed ;  hand  to  hand,  with  fixed  baj^o- 
nets  and  clubbed  muskets  and  death  grapples 
in  the  darkness,  and  everywhere,  smearing  and 
soaking  the  combatants,  the  blood  of  men. 
But  the  first  trench,  already  battered  into  a 
shapeless  and  shallow  ravine,  was  won.  Can- 
ada was  triumphant.  The  curtain  of  artillery 
fire  lifted  and  fell  on  the  enemy's  third  line. 
So,  now,  forward  again,  leaving  the  "trench 


INTO  THE  FACE  OF  DEATH  HE  LED  THE  REMNANT  OF  His  BRAVE  PLATOON* 

p.  274. 


THE  FLAG  275 

cleaners"  to  hunt  out  those  of  the  enemy  who 
had  taken  refuge  in  holes  and  caves.  Again 
the  rain  of  hurtling  and  hissing  and  crashing 
steel.  Human  fortitude  and  endurance  were 
indeed  no  match  for  this.  Again  the  clubs  and 
bayonets  and  wild  men  reaching  with  blood- 
smeared  hands  for  each  other's  throats  in  the 
darkness. 

And  then,  to  Penfield  Butler,  at  last,  came 
the  soldier's  destiny.  It  seemed  as  though 
some  mighty  force  had  struck  him  in  the  breast, 
whirled  him  round  and  round,  toppled  him  to 
earth,  and  left  him  lying  there,  crushed,  bleed- 
ing and  unconscious.  How  long  it  was  that 
he  lay  oblivious  of  the  conflict  he  did  not  know. 
But  when  he  awakened  to  sensibility  the  rush 
of  battle  had  ceased.  There  was  no  fighting 
around  him.  He  had  a  sense  of  great  suffoca- 
tion. He  knew  that  he  was  spitting  blood. 
He  tried  to  raise  his  hand,  and  his  revolver  fell 
from  the  nerveless  fingers  that  were  still  grasp- 
ing it.  A  little  later  he  raised  his  other  hand 
to  his  breast  and  felt  that  his  clothing  was  torn 
and  soaked.  He  lifted  his  head,  and  in  the 
light  of  an  enemy  flare  he  looked  about  him. 


276  THE  FLAG 

He  saw  only  the  torn  soil  covered  with  crouched 
and  sprawling  bodies  of  the  wounded  and  the 
dead,  and  with  wreckage  indescribable.  Bul- 
lets were  humming  and  whistling  overhead,  and 
spattering  the  ground  around  him.  Men  in 
the  agony  of  their  wounds  were  moaning  and 
crying  near  by.  He  lay  back  and  tried  to 
think.  By  the  light  of  the  next  flare  he  saw 
the  rough  edge  of  a  great  shell-hole  a  little  way 
beyond  him  toward  the  British  lines.  In  the 
darkness  he  tried  to  crawl  toward  it.  It  would 
be  safer  there  than  in  this  whistling  cross-fire 
of  bullets.  He  did  not  dare  try  to  rise.  He 
could  not  turn  himself  on  his  stomach,  the  pain 
and  sense  of  suffocation  were  too  great  when 
he  attempted  it.  So  he  pulled  himself  along 
in  the  darkness  on  his  back  to  the  cavity,  and 
sought  shelter  within  it.  Bodies  of  others  who 
had  attempted  to  run  or  creep  to  it,  and  had 
been  caught  by  Boche  bullets  on  the  way,  were 
hanging  over  its  edge.  Under  its  protecting 
shoulder  were  many  wounded,  treating  their 
own  injuries,  helping  others  as  they  could  in 
the  darkness  and  by  the  fitful  light  of  the  Ger- 
man flares.  Some  one,  whose  friendly  voice 


THE  FLAG  277 

was  half  familiar,  yet  sounded  strange  and  far 
away,  dragged  the  exhausted  boy  still  farther 
into  shelter,  felt  of  his  blood-soaked  chest,  and 
endeavored,  awkwardly  and  crudely,  for  he 
himself  was  wounded,  to  give  first  aid.  And 
then  again  came  unconsciousness. 

So,  in  the  black  night,  in  the  shell-made  cav- 
ern with  the  pall  of  flame-streaked  battle  smoke 
hanging  over  it,  and  the  whining,  screaming 
missiles  from  guns  of  friend  and  foe  weaving 
a  curtain  of  tangled  threads  above  it,  this 
young  soldier  of  the  American  Legion,  his 
breast  shot  half  in  two,  his  rich  blood  redden- 
ing the  soil  of  France,  lay  steeped  in  merciful 
oblivion. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHEN  Colonel  Butler  declared  his  inten- 
tion of  going  to  New  York  and  Washington 
to  consult  with  his  friends  about  the  great  war, 
to  urge  active  participation  in  it  by  the  United 
States,  and  to  offer  to  the  proper  authorities, 
his  services  as  a  military  expert  and  com- 
mander, his  daughter  protested  vigorously. 
It  was  absurd,  she  declared,  for  him,  at  his 
age,  to  think  of  doing  anything  of  the  kind; 
utterly  preposterous  and  absurd.  But  he 
would  not  listen  to  her.  His  mind  was  made 
up,  and  she  was  entirely  unable  to  divert  him 
from  his  purpose. 

"Then  I  shall  go  with  you,"  she  declared. 

"May  I  ask,"  he  inquired,  "what  your  object 
is  in  wishing  to  accompany  me?" 

"Because  you're  not  fit  to  go  alone.  You're 
too  old  and  feeble,  and  something  might  hap- 
pen to  you." 


THE  FLAG  279 

He  turned  on  her  a  look  of  infinite 
scorn. 

"Age,"  he  replied,  "is  no  barrier  to  patriot- 
ism. A  man's  obligation  to  serve  his  country 
is  not  measured  by  his  years.  I  have  never 
been  more  capable  of  taking  the  field  against 
an  enemy  of  civilization  than  I  am  at  this  mo- 
ment. To  suggest  that  I  am  not  fit  to  travel 
unless  accompanied  by  a  female  member  of  my 
family  falls  little  short  of  being  gross  disre- 
spect. I  shall  go  alone." 

Again  she  protested,  but  she  was  utterly  un- 
able to  swerve  him  a  hair's  breadth  from  his 
determination  and  purpose.  So  she  was 
obliged  to  see  him  start  off  by  himself  on  his 
useless  and  Quixotic  errand.  She  knew  that 
he  would  return  disappointed,  saddened, 
doubly  depressed,  and  ill  both  in  body  and 
mind. 

Since  Pen's  abrupt  departure  to  seek  a  home 
with  his  Grandpa  Walker,  Colonel  Butler  had 
not  been  so  obedient  to  his  daughter's  wishes. 
He  had  changed  in  many  respects.  He  had 
grown  old,  white-haired,  feeble  and  despond- 
ent. He  was  often  ill  at  ease,  and  sometimes 


280  THE  FLAG 

morose.  That  he  grieved  over  the  boy's  ab- 
sence there  was  not  a  shadow  of  doubt.  Yet 
he  would  not  permit  the  first  suggestion  of  a 
reconciliation  that  did  not  involve  the  humble 
application  of  his  grandson  to  be  forgiven  and 
taken  back.  But  such  an  application  was  not 
made.  The  winter  days  went  by,  spring  blos- 
somed into  summer,  season  followed  season, 
and  not  yet  had  the  master  of  Bannerhall  seen 
•coming  down  the  long,  gray  road  to  the  old 
home  the  figure  of  a  sorrowful  and  suppliant 
boy. 

When  the  world  war  began,  his  mind  was 
diverted  to  some  extent  from  his  sorrow. 
From  the  beginning  his  sympathies  had  been 
with  the  Allies.  Old  soldier  that  he  was  he 
could  not  denounce  with  sufficient  bitterness 
the  spirit  of  militarism  that  seemed  to  have  run 
rampant  among  the  Central  Powers.  At  the 
invasion  of  Belgium  and  at  the  mistreatment 
of  her  people,  especially  of  her  women  and 
children,  at  the  bombardment  of  the  cathedral 
of  Rheims,  at  the  sinking  of  the  Lmitama,  at 
the  execution  of  Edith  Cavell,  at  all  the  out- 
rages of  which  German  militarism  was  guilty, 


THE  FLAG  281 

he  grew  more  and  more  indignant  and  denun- 
ciatory. His  sense  of  fairness,  his  spirit  of 
chivalry,  his  ideas  of  honorable  warfare  and 
soldierly  conduct  were  inexpressibly  shocked. 
The  murder  of  sleeping  women  and  children 
in  country  villages  by  the  dropping  of  bombs 
from  airships,  the  suffocation  of  brave  soldiers 
by  the  use  of  deadly  gases,  the  hurling  of  liquid 
fire  into  the  ranks  of  a  civilized  enemy;  these 
things  stirred  him  to  the  depths.  He  talked 
of  the  war  by  day,  he  dreamed  of  it  at  night. 
He  chafed  bitterly  at  the  apparent  attempt  of 
the  Government  at  Washington  to  preserve  the 
neutrality  of  this  country  against  the  most  pro- 
voking wrongs.  It  was  our  war,  he  declared, 
as  much  as  it  was  the  war  of  any  nation  in 
Europe,  and  it  was  our  duty  to  get  into  it  for 
the  sake  of  humanity,  at  the  earliest  possible 
moment  and  at  any  cost.  His  intense  feeling 
and  profound  conviction  in  the  matter  led 
finally  to  his  determination  to  make  the  trip 
to  New  York  and  Washington  in  order  to  pre- 
sent his  views  and  make  his  recommendations, 
and  to  offer  his  services  in  person,  in  quarters 
where  he  believed  they  would  be  welcomed  and 


282  THE  FLAG 

acted  on.  So  he  went  on  what  appeared  to 
his  daughter  to  be  the  most  preposterous  er- 
rand he  had  ever  undertaken. 

He  returned  even  sooner  than  she  had  ex- 
pected him  to  come.  In  response  to  his  tele- 
gram she  sent  the  carriage  to  the  station  to 
meet  him  on  the  arrival  of  the  afternoon  train. 
When  she  heard  the  rumbling  of  the  wheels 
outside  she  went  to  the  door,  knowing  that  it 
would  require  her  best  effort  to  cheerfully  wel- 
come the  disappointed,  dejected  and  enfeebled 
old  man.  Then  she  had  the  surprise  of  her 
life.  Colonel  Butler  alighted  from  the  car- 
riage and  mounted  the  porch  steps  with  the 
elasticity  of  youth.  He  was  travel-stained  and 
weary,  indeed;  but  his  face,  from  which  half 
the  wrinkles  seemed  to  have  disappeared,  was 
beaming  with  happiness.  He  kissed  his 
daughter,  and,  with  old-fashioned  courtesy, 
conducted  her  to  a  porch  chair.  In  her  mind 
there  could  be  but  one  explanation  for  his  ex- 
traordinary appearance  and  conduct;  the  pur- 
pose of  his  journey  had  been  accomplished  and 
his  last  absurd  wish  had  been  gratified. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  "they 


THE  FLAG  283 

have  agreed  to  adopt  your  plans,  and  take  you 
back  into  the  army. 

"Into  the  what,  my  dear?" 

"Into  the  army.  Didn't  you  go  to  Wash- 
ington for  the  purpose  of  getting  back  into 
service?" 

"Why,  yes.  I  believe  I  did.  Pardon  me, 
but,  in  view  of  matters  of  much  greater  im- 
portance, the  result  of  this  particular  effort 
had  slipped  my  mind." 

"Matters  of  greater  importance?" 

"Yes.  I  was  about  to  inform  you  that  while 
I  was  in  Xew  York  I  unexpectedly  ran  across 
my  grandson,  Master  Penfield  Butler." 

She  sat  up  with  a  look  of  surprise  and  appre- 
hension in  her  eyes. 

"Ran  across  Pen?  What  was  he  doing 
there?" 

"He  was  on  his  way  to  Canada  to  join  those 
forces  of  the  Dominion  Government  which  will 
eventually  sail  for  France,  and  help  to  free  that 
unhappy  country  from  the  heel  of  the  barbar- 
ian." 

"You  mean—?" 

"I  mean  that  Penfield  was  to  enlist,  has 


284  THE  FLAG 

doubtless  now  already  enlisted,  with  the  Can- 
adian troops  which,  after  a  period  of  drilling 
at  home,  will  enter  the  war  on  the  firing  line  in 
northern  France." 

"Well,  for  goodness  sake!"  It  was  all  that 
Aunt  Millicent  could  say,  and  when  she  had 
said  that  she  practically  collapsed. 

"Yes,"  he  rejoined,  "he  felt  as  did  I,  that 
the  time  had  come  for  American  citizens,  both 
old  and  young,  with  red  blood  in  their  veins, 
to  spill  that  blood,  if  necessary,  in  fighting  for 
the  liberty  of  the  world.  Patriotism,  duty,  the 
spirit  of  his  ancestors,  called  him,  and  he  has 
gone." 

Colonel  Butler  was  radiant.  His  eyes  were 
aglow  with  enthusiasm.  His  own  recom- 
mendations for  national  conduct  had  gone  un- 
heeded indeed,  and  his  own  offer  of  military 
service  had  been  civilly  declined;  but  these 
facts  were  of  small  moment  compared  with  the 
proud  knowledge  that  a  young  scion  of  his  race 
was  about  to  carry  the  family  traditions  and 
prestige  into  the  battle  front  of  the  greatest 
war  for  liberty  that  the  world  had  ever  known. 

In  Pen's  second  letter  home  from  Canada  he 


THE  FLAG  285 

told  of  the  arrival  and  enlistment  of  Aleck 
Sands,  and  of  the  complete  blotting  out  of  the 
old  feud  that  had  existed  between  them.  Later 
on  he  wrote  them,  in  many  letters,  all  about  his 
barrack  life,  and  of  how  contented  and  happy 
he  was,  and  how  eagerly  he  was  looking  for- 
ward to  the  day  when  he  and  his  comrades 
should  cross  the  water  to  those  countries  where 
the  great  war  was  a  reality.  The  letter  that 
he  wrote  the  day  before  he  sailed  was  rilled  with 
the  brightness  of  enthusiasm  and  the  joy  of  an- 
ticipation. And  while  the  long  period  of  drill 
on  English  soil  became  somewhat  irksome  to 
him,  as  one  reading  between  the  lines  could 
readily  discover,  he  made  no  direct  complaint. 
It  was  simply  a  part  of  the  game.  But  it  was 
when  he  had  reached  the  front,  and  his  letters 
breathed  the  sternness  of  the  conflict  and 
echoed  the  thunder  of  the  guns,  that  he  was  at 
his  best  in  writing.  Mere  salutations  some  of 
them  were,  written  from  the  trenches  by  the 
light  of  a  dug-out  candle,  but  they  pulsated 
with  patriotism  and  heroism  and  a  determina- 
tion to  live  up  to  the  best  traditions  of  a  sol- 
dier's career. 


286  THE  FLAG 

Colonel  Butler  devoured  every  scrap  of  news 
that  came  from  the  front  in  the  half  dozen 
papers  that  he  read  daily.  He  kept  in  close 
touch  with  the  international  situation,  he  fumed 
constantly  at  the  inactivity  of  his  own  govern- 
ment in  view  of  her  state  of  unpreparedness  for 
a  war  into  which  she  must  sooner  or  later  be  in- 
evitably plunged.  He  lost  all  patience  with 
what  he  considered  the  timidity  of  the  Presi- 
dent, and  what  he  called  the  stupidity  of  con- 
gress. Was  not  the  youngest  and  the  reddest 
and  the  best  of  the  Butler  blood  at  the  fighting 
line,  ready  at  any  moment  to  be  spilled  to  the 
death  on  the  altar  of  the  world's  liberty? 
Why  then  should  the  government  of  the  United 
States  sit  supinely  by  and  see  the  finest  young 
manhood  of  her  own  and  other  lands  fighting 
and  perishing  in  the  cause  of  humanity  when, 
by  voicing  the  conscience  of  her  people,  and  de- 
claring and  making  war  on  the  Central  Powers, 
she  could  most  effectually  aid  in  bringing  to  a 
speedy  and  victorious  end  this  monstrous  ex- 
ample of  modern  barbarism?  Why,  indeed! 

One  day  Colonel  Butler  suggested  to  his 
daughter  that  she  go  up  to  Lowbridge  and 


THE  FLAG  287 

again  inquire  whether  Pen's  mother  had  any 
needs  of  any  kind  that  he  could  possibly 
supply. 

"And,"  he  added,  "I  wish  you  to  invite  her 
to  Bannerhall  for  a  visit  of  indefinite  duration. 
In  these  trying  and  critical  times  my  daughter- 
in-law's  place  is  in  the  ancestral  home  of  her 
deceased  husband." 

Aunt  Millicent,  delighted  with  the  purport  of 
her  mission,  went  up  to  Lowbridge  and  ex- 
tended the  invitation,  and,  with  all  the  elo- 
quence at  her  command,  urged  its  acceptance. 
But  Sarah  Butler  was  unyielding  and  would 
not  come.  She  had  been  wounded  too  deeply 
in  years  gone  by. 

So  spring  came,  and  blade,  leaf  and  flower 
sprang  into  beautiful  and  rejoicing  existence. 
Xo  one  had  ever  before  seen  the  orchard  trees 
so  superbly  laden  with  blossoms.  No  one  had 
ever  before  seen  a  brighter  promise  of  a  more 
bountiful  season.  And  the  country  was  still 
at  peace,  enriching  herself  with  a  mintage 
coined  of  blood  and  sorrow  abroad,  though 
drifting  aimlessly  and  ever  closer  to  the  verge 
of  war. 


288  THE  FLAG 

There  was  a  time  early  in  July  when,  for 
two  weeks,  no  letter  came  from  Pen.  The  sus- 
pense was  almost  unbearable.  For  days 
Colonel  Butler  haunted  the  post-office.  His 
self-assurance  left  him,  his  confident  and  con- 
vincing voice  grew  weak,  a  haunting  fear  of 
what  news  might  come  was  with  him  night  and 
day. 

At  last  he  received  a  letter  from  abroad.  It 
was  from  Pen,  addressed  in  his  own  hand-writ- 
ing. The  colonel  himself  took  it  from  his  box 
at  the  post-office  in  the  presence  of  a  crowd  of 
his  neighbors  and  friends  awaiting  the  distribu- 
tion of  their  mail.  It  was  scrawled  in  pencil 
on  paper  that  had  never  been  intended  to  be 
used  for  correspondence  purposes. 

Pen  had  just  learned,  he  wrote,  that  the 
messenger  who  carried  a  former  letter  from 
the  trenches  for  him  had  been  killed  en  route 
by  an  exploding  shell,  and  the  contents  of  his 
mail  pouch  scattered  and  destroyed.  More- 
over he  had  been  very  busy.  Fighting  had 
been  brisk,  there  had  been  a  good  many  cas- 
ualties in  his  company,  but  he  himself,  save 
for  some  superficial  wounds  received  on  the 


THE  FLAG  289 

Fourth  of  July,  was  unhurt  and  reasonably 
well. 

"I  am  sorry  to  report,  however,"  the  letter 
continued,  "that  my  comrade,  Aleck  Sands,  has 
been  severely  wounded.  We  were  engaged  in 
a  brisk  assault  on  the  enemy's  lines  on  the 
Fourth  of  July,  and  captured  some  of  their 
trenches.  During  the  engagement  Aleck  re- 
ceived a  bayonet  wound  in  the  shoulder,  and 
a  badly  battered  knee.  I  was  able  to  help  him 
off  the  field  and  to  an  ambulance.  I  believe 
he  is  somewhere  now  in  a  hospital  not  far  to 
the  rear  of  us.  I  mean  to  see  him  soon  if  I  can 
find  out  where  he  is  and  get  leave.  Tell  his 
folks  that  he  fought  like  a  hero.  I  never  saw  a 
braver  man  in  battle. 

"You  will  be  glad  to  learn  that  since  the  en- 
gagement on  the  fourth  I  have  been  made 
a  sergeant,  'for  conspicuous  bravery  in  action,' 
the  order  read. 

"I  suppose  the  flag  is  flying  on  the  school- 
house  staff  these  days.  How  I  would  like  to 
see  it.  If  I  could  only  see  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  over  here,  and  our  own  troops  under  it, 
I  should  be  perfectly  happy.  The  longer  I 
fight  here  the  more  I'm  convinced  that  the 
cause  we're  fighting  for  is  a  just  and  glorious 
one,  and  the  more  willing  I  am  to  die  for  it. 


290  THE  FLAG 

"Give  my  dear  love  to  Aunt  Milly.  I  have 
just  written  to  mother. 

"Your  affectionate  grandson, 

"PENFIELD  BUTLER." 

Colonel  Butler  looked  up  from  the  reading 
with  moist  eyes  and  glowing  face,  to  find  a 
dozen  of  his  townsmen  who  knew  that  the  letter 
had  come,  waiting  to  hear  news  from  Pen. 

"On  Independence  Day,"  said  the  colonel,  in 
answer  to  their  inquiries,  "he  participated  in  a 
gallant  and  bloody  assault  on  the  enemy's 
lines,  in  which  many  trenches  were  taken. 
Save  for  superficial  wounds,  easily  healed  in 
the  young  and  vigorous,  he  came  out  of  the 
melee  unscathed." 

"Good  for  him!"  exclaimed  one. 

"Bravo!"  shouted  another. 

"And,  gentlemen,"  the  colonel's  voice  rose 
and  swelled  moderately  as  he  proceeded,  "I  am 
proud  to  say  that,  following  that  engagement, 
my  grandson,  for  conspicuous  bravery  in  ac- 
tion, was  promoted  to  the  rank  of  sergeant  in 
the  colonial  troops  of  Great  Britain." 

"Splendid!" 

"He's  the  boy!" 


THE  FLAG  291 

"We're  proud  of  him !" 

The  colonel's  eyes  were  flashing  now;  his 
head  was  erect,  his  one  hand  was  thrust  into  the 
bosom  of  his  waistcoat. 

"I  thank  you,  gentlemen!"  he  said,  "on  be- 
half of  my  grandson.  To  pass  inherited  pa- 
triotism from  father  to  son,  from  generation  to 
generation,  and  to  see  it  find  its  perfect  fulfill- 
ment in  the  latest  scion  of  the  race,  is  to  live  in 
the  golden  age,  gentlemen,  and  to  partake  of 
the  fountain  of  youth." 

His  voice  quavered  a  little  at  the  end,  and 
he  waited  for  a  moment  to  recover  it,  and  pos- 
sibly to  give  his  eloquence  an  opportunity  to 
sink  in  more  deeply,  and  then  he  continued: 

"I  regret  to  say,  gentlemen,  that  in  the 
fierce  engagement  of  the  fourth  instant,  my 
grandson's  gallant  comrade,  Master  Alexander 
Sands,  was  severely  wounded  both  in  the  shoul- 
der and  the  knee,  and  is  now  somewhere  in  a 
hospital  in  northern  France,  well  back  of  the 
lines,  recuperating  from  his  injuries.  I  shall 
communicate  this  information  at  once  to  his 
parents,  together  with  such  encouragement  as 
is  contained  in  my  grandson's  letter." 


292  THE  FLAG 

Proud  as  a  king,  he  turned  from  the  sympa- 
thetic group,  entered  his  carriage  and  was 
driven  toward  Chestnut  Valley. 

It  was  late  in  September  when  Aleck  Sands 
came  home.  The  family  at  Bannerhall,  aug- 
mented within  the  last  year  by  the  addition  of 
Colonel  Butler's  favorite  niece,  was  seated  at 
the  supper  table  one  evening  when  Elmer  Cud- 
deback,  now  grown  into  a  fine,  stalwart  youth, 
hurried  in  to  announce  the  arrival. 

"I  happened  to  be  at  the  station  when  Aleck 
came,"  he  said.  "He  looked  like  a  skeleton 
and  a  ghost  rolled  into  one.  He  couldn't  walk 
at  all,  and  he  was  just  able  to  talk.  But  he 
said  he'd  been  having  a  fine  time  and  was  feel- 
ing bully.  Isn't  that  nerve  for  you?" 

"Splendid!"  exclaimed  the  colonel,  holding 
his  napkin  high  in  the  air  in  his  excitement. 
"A  marvelous  young  man!  I  shall  do  myself 
the  honor  to  call  on  him  in  person  tomorrow 
morning,  and  compliment  him  on  his  bravery, 
and  congratulate  him  on  his  escape  from  mor- 
tal injury." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  and  his 
daughter  both  went  down  to  Cherry  Valley 


THE  FLAG  293 

and  called  on  Aleck  Sands.  He  was  lying 
propped  up  in  bed,  attended  by  a  thankful  and 
devoted  mother,  trying  to  give  rest  to  a  tired 
and  irritated  body,  and  to  enjoy  once  more 
the  sights  and  sounds  of  home.  He  was  too 
weak  to  do  much  talking,  but  almost  his  first 
words  were  an  anxious  inquiry  about  Pen. 
They  told  him  what  they  knew. 

"He  came  to  see  me  at  the  hospital  in 
August,"  said  Aleck.  "It  was  like  a  breeze 
from  heaven.  If  he  doesn't  come  back  here 
alive  and  well  at  the  end  of  this  war,  with  the 
Victoria  Cross  on  his  breast,  I  shall  be  ashamed 
to  go  out  on  the  street ;  he  is  so  much  the  braver 
soldier  and  the  better  man  of  the  two  of  us." 

"He  has  written  to  us,"  said  the  colonel,  and 
his  eyes  were  moist,  and  his  voice  choked  a 
little  as  he  spoke,  "that  you,  yourself,  in  the 
matter  of  courage  in  battle,  upheld  the  best 
traditions  of  American  bravery,  and  I  am 
proud  of  you,  sir,  as  are  all  of  your  townsmen." 

The  colonel  would  have  remained  to  listen 
to  further  commendation  of  his  grandson,  and 
to  discuss  with  one  who  had  actually  been  on  the 
fighting  line,  the  conditions  under  which  the 


294  THE  FLAG 

war  was  being  waged ;  but  his  daughter,  seeing 
that  the  boy  needed  rest,  brought  the  visit  to  a 
speedy  close. 

"Give  my  love  to  Pen  when  you  write  to 
him,"  said  Aleck,  as  he  bade  them  good-by; 
"the  bravest  soldier — and  the  dearest  comrade 
— that  ever  carried  a  gun." 

After  the  winter  holidays  a  week  went  by 
with  no  letter  from  Pen.  The  colonel  began 
to  grow  anxious,  but  it  was  not  until  the  end  of 
the  second  week  that  he  really  became  alarmed. 
And  when  three  weeks  had  gone  by,  and 
neither  the  mails  nor  the  cable  nor  the  wireless 
had  brought  any  news  of  the  absent  soldier, 
Colonel  Butler  was  on  the  verge  of  despair. 
He  had  haunted  the  post-office  as  before,  he 
had  made  inquiry  at  the  state  department  at 
Washington,  he  had  telegraphed  to  Canada 
for  information,  but  nothing  came  of  it  all. 
Aleck  Sands  had  heard  absolutely  nothing. 
Pen's  mother,  almost  beside  herself,  telephoned 
every  day  to  Bannerhall  for  news,  and  received 
none.  The  strain  of  apprehensive  waiting  be- 
came almost  unbearable  for  them  all. 

One  day,  unable  longer  to  withstand  the 


THE  FLAG  295 

heart-breaking  tension,  the  old  patriot  sent  an 
agent  post-haste  to  Toronto,  with  instructions 
to  spare  no  effort  and  no  expense  in  finding 
out  what  had  become  of  his  grandson. 

Three  days  later,  from  his  agent  came  a  tele- 
gram reading  as  follows : 

"Lieutenant  Butler  in  hospital  near  Rouen. 
Wound  severe.  Suffering  now  from  pneu- 
monia. Condition  serious  but  still  hopeful. 
Details  by  letter." 

This  telegram  was  received  at  Bannerhall  in 
the  morning.  In  the  early  afternoon  of  the 
same  day  Pen's  mother  received  a  letter  writ- 
ten three  weeks  earlier  by  his  nurse  at  the  hos- 
pital. She  was  an  American  girl  who  had  been 
long  in  France,  and  who,  from  the  beginning 
of  the  war,  had  given  herself  whole-heartedly 
to  the  work  at  the  hospitals. 

"Do  not  be  unduly  alarmed,"  she  wrote, 
"he  is  severely  wounded;  evidently  a  hand- 
grenade  exploded  against  his  breast;  but  if  we 
are  able  to  ward  off  pneumonia  he  will  recover. 
He  has  given  me  your  name  and  address, 
and  wished  me  to  write.  I  think  an  early 
and  cheerful  letter  from  you  would  be  a 


296  THE  FLAG 

great  comfort  to  him,  and  I  hope  he  will  be 
able  to  appreciate  some  gifts  and  dainties 
from  home  by  the  time  they  could  reach 
here.  Let  me  add  that  he  is  a  model  pa- 
tient, quiet  and  uncomplaining,  and  I  am 
told  that  he  was  among  the  bravest  of  all  the 
brave  Americans  fighting  with  the  Canadian 
forces  on  the  Somme." 

Between  Bannerhall  and  Sarah  Butler's 
home  at  Lowbridge  the  telephone  lines  were 
busy  that  day.  It  was  a  relief  to  all  of  them 
to  know  that  Pen  was  living  and  being  cared 
for;  it  was  a  source  of  apprehension  and  grief 
to  them  that  his  condition,  as  intimated  in  the 
telegram,  was  still  so  critical. 

As  for  Colonel  Butler  he  was  in  a  fever  of 
excitement  and  distress.  Late  in  the  after- 
noon he  went  to  his  room  and,  with  his  one 
hand,  began,  hastily  and  confusedly,  to  pack  a 
small  steamer  trunk.  His  daughter  found  him 
so  occupied. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing?"  she 
asked  him. 

"I  am  preparing  to  go  to  Rouen,"  he  re- 
plied, "to  see  that  my  grandson  is  cared  for  in 


THE  FLAG  297 

his  illness  in  a  manner  due  to  one  who  has 
placed  his  life  in  jeopardy  for  France." 

"Father,  stand  up!  Look  at  me!  Listen 
to  me!"  The  very  essence  of  determination 
was  in  her  voice  and  manner,  and  he  obeyed 
her.  "You  are  not  to  stir  one  step  from  this 
town.  Sarah  Butler  and  I  are  going  to 
France  to  be  with  Pen;  we  have  talked  it  over 
and  decided  on  it;  and  you  are  going  to  stay 
right  here  at  Bannerhall,  where  you  can  be  of 
supreme  service  to  us,  instead  of  burdening  us 
with  your  company." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  for  a  moment,  but 
he  saw  only  rigid  resolution  and  determination 
in  her  eyes;  he  was  too  unstrung  and  broken 
to  protest,  or  to  insist  on  his  right  as  head  of 
the  house,  and  so — he  yielded.  Later  in  the 
day,  however,  a  compromise  was  effected.  It 
was  agreed  that  he  should  accompany  his 
daughter  and  his  daughter-in-law  to  New 
York,  aid  them  in  securing  passage,  passports 
and  credentials,  and  see  them  safely  aboard 
ship  for  their  perilous  journey,  after  which  he 
was  to  return  home  and  spend  the  time  quietly 
with  his  niece  Eleanor,  and  make  necessary 


298  THE  FLAG 

preparations  for  the  return  of  the  invalid,  later 
on,  to  Bannerhall. 

He  carried  out  his  part  of  the  New  York  pro- 
gram in  good  faith,  and  had  the  satisfaction, 
three  days  later,  of  bidding  the  two  women 
good-by  on  the  deck  of  a  French  liner  bound  for 
Havre.  He  had  no  apprehension  concerning 
the  fitness  of  his  daughter  to  go  abroad  unac- 
companied save  by  her  sister-in-law.  She  had 
been  with  him  on  three  separate  trips  to  the  con- 
tinent, and,  in  his  judgment,  for  a  woman,  she 
had  displayed  marked  traveling  ability.  His 
only  fear  was  of  German  submarines. 

"A  most  cowardly,  dastardly,  uncivilized 
way,"  he  declared,  "of  waging  war  upon  an  en- 
emy's women  and  children." 

He  was  in  good  spirits  as  the  vessel  sailed. 
His  parting  words  to  his  daughter  were: 

"If  you  should  have  occasion  to  discuss  with 
our  friends  in  France  the  attitude  of  this  nation 
toward  the  war,  you  may  say  that  it  is  my  opin- 
ion that  the  conscience  of  the  country  is  now 
awake,  and  that  before  long  we  shall  be  shoul- 
der to  shoulder  with  them  in  the  destruction  of 
barbarism." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FOR  twenty-five  years  there  has  stood,  in  one 
of  the  faubourgs  of  Rouen,  not  far  from  the 
right  bank  of  the  Seine,  a  long  two-story  brick 
building,  with  a  wing  reaching  back  to  the  base 
of  the  hill.  Up  to  the  year  1915  it  was  used 
as  a  factory  for  the  making  of  silk  ribbons. 
Rouen  had  been  a  center  of  the  cotton  man- 
ufacturing industry  from  time  immemorial. 
Why  therefore  should  not  the  making  of  silk 
be  added?  It  was  added,  and  the  enterprise 
grew  and  became  prosperous.  Then  came  the 
war,  vast,  terrible,  bringing  in  its  train  suf- 
fering, poverty,  a  drastic  curtailment  of  all 
the  luxuries  of  life.  Silk  ribbons  are  a  luxury ; 
they  go  with  soft  living.  So,  then ;  v oild  tout! 
Before  the  end  of  the  first  year  of  the  conflict 
the  factory  was  transformed  into  a  hospital. 
The  clatter  of  looms  and  the  chatter  of  girls 
gave  place  to  the  moanings  of  sick  and 
wounded  men,  and  the  gentle  voices  of  white 


300  THE  FLAG 

and  blue  clad  nurses.  It  was  no  longer  bales 
of  raw  silk  that  were  carted  up  to  the  big  doors 
of  the  factory,  and  boxes  of  rolled  ribbon  that 
were  trundled  down  the  drive  to  the  street,  to 
the  warehouses,  and  thence  to  the  admiring 
eyes  of  beauty-loving  women.  The  human 
freight  that  was  brought  to  the  big  doors  in 
these  days  consisted  of  the  pierced  and  muti- 
lated bodies  of  men ;  soldiers  for  whom  the  final 
taps  would  soon  sound.  If  they  chanced  to  be 
of  the  British  troops,  and  held  fast  to  the  spark 
of  life  within  them,  then  they  were  close  enough 
to  the  seaport  to  be  taken  across  the  channel 
for  final  convalescence  under  English  skies. 

It  was  to  this  hospital  that  Lieutenant  Pen- 
field  Butler  was  brought  from  the  battle-field  of 
the  Somme.  His  battalion  had  done  the  work 
assigned  to  it  in  the  fight,  had  done  it  well,  and 
had  withdrawn  to  its  trenches,  leaving  a  third 
of  its  men  dead  or  wounded  between  the  lines. 
Later  on,  under  cover  of  a  galling  artillery  fire, 
rescue  parties  had  gone  out  to  bring  in  the 
wounded.  They  had  found  Pen  in  the  shelter 
of  the  shell-hole,  still  unconscious.  They  had 
brought  him  back  across  the  fire-swept  field, 


THE  FLAG  301 

and  down  through  the  winding,  narrow 
trenches,  to  the  first-aid  station,  from  which, 
after  a  hurried  examination  and  superficial 
treatment  of  his  wounds,  he  was  taken  in  a 
guard-car  to  a  field  hospital  in  the  rear  of  the 
lines.  But  space  in  these  field  hospitals  is  too 
precious  to  permit  of  wounded  men  who  can 
be  moved  without  fatal  results,  remaining  in 
them  for  long  periods.  The  stream  of  new- 
comers is  too  constant  and  too  pressing. 
So,  after  five  days,  Pen  was  sent,  by  way  of 
Amiens,  to  the  hospital  in  the  suburbs  of 
Rouen.  He,  himself,  knew  little  of  where  he 
was  or  of  what  was  being  done  for  him.  A 
bullet  had  grazed  his  right  arm,  and  a  clubbed 
musket  or  revolver  had  laid  his  scalp  open  to 
the  bone.  But  these  were  slight  injuries  in 
comparison  with  the  awful  wound  in  his  breast. 
Torn  flesh,  shattered  bones,  pierced  lungs, 
these  things  left  life  hanging  by  the  slenderest 
thread.  When  the  medecin-chef  of  the  hos- 
pital near  Rouen  took  his  first  look  at  the  boy 
after  his  arrival,  he  had  him  put  under  the  in- 
fluence of  an  anaesthetic  in  order  that  he  could 
the  more  readily  and  effectively  examine,  probe 


302  THE  FLAG 

and  dress  the  wound,  and  remove  any  irritating 
splinters  of  bone  that  might  be  the  cause  of  the 
continuous  leakage  from  the  lungs.  But  when 
he  had  finished  his  delicate  and  strenuous  task 
he  turned  to  the  nurse  at  his  side  and  gave  a 
hopeless  shake  of  his  head  and  shrug  of  his 
shoulders. 

"Fichu!"  he  said ;  ffle  laisser  tranquille." 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  let  him  die,"  she  re- 
plied; "he  is  too  young,  too  handsome,  too 
brave,  and  he  is  an  American." 

He  smiled,  shook  his  head  again  and  passed 
on  to  the  next  case.  The  girl  was  an  American 
too,  and  these  American  nurses  were  always  so 
optimistic,  so  faithfully  persistent,  she  might 
pull  him  through,  but — the  smile  of  incredu- 
lity still  lay  on  the  lips  of  the  medicin-chef. 

The  next  day  the  young  soldier  was  better. 
The  leakage  had  not  yet  wholly  ceased ;  but  the 
wound  was  apparently  beginning  to  heal.  He 
was  still  dazed,  and  his  pain  was  still  too  severe 
to  be  endured  without  opiates.  It  was  five 
days  later  that  he  came  fully  to  his  senses,  was 
able  to  articulate,  and  to  frame  intelligent  sen- 
tences. He  indicated  to  his  nurse,  Miss  By- 


THE  FLAG  303 

ron,  that  he  wished  to  have  his  mother  written 
to. 

"No  especial  message,"  he  whispered,  "just 
that  I  am  here — have  been  wounded — recover- 
ing." 

But  the  nurse  had  already  learned  from 
other  men  of  Pen's  company,  less  seriously 
wounded  than  he,  who  were  at  the  same  hos- 
pital, something  about  the  boy's  desperate 
braver)^  and  how  his  stern  fighting  qualities 
were  combined  with  great  tenderness  of  heart 
and  a  most  loving  disposition,  and  she  could  not 
avoid  putting  an  echo  of  it  in  her  letter  to  his 
mother. 

Later  on  Pen  developed  symptoms  of  pneu- 
monia, a  disease  that  follows  so  often  on  an  in- 
jury to  the  structure  of  the  lungs. 

When  the  medecin-chef  came  and  noted  the 
increase  in  temperature  and  the  decrease  in  vi- 
tality, he  looked  grave.  Every  day,  with  true 
French  courtesy,  he  had  congratulated  Miss 
Byron  on  her  remarkable  success  in  nursing 
the  young  American  back  to  life.  But  now, 
perhaps,  after  all,  the  efforts  of  both  of  them 
would  be  wasted.  Pneumonia  is  a  hard  foe  to 


304  THE  FLAG 

fight  when  it  attacks  wounded  lungs.  So  an 
English  physician  was  called  in  and  joined  with 
the  French  surgeon  and  the  American  nurse 
to  combat  the  dreaded  enemy.  It  seemed, 
somehow,  as  if  each  of  them  felt  that  the  honor 
of  his  or  her  country  was  at  stake  in  this  battle 
with  disease  and  death  across  that  hospital  bed 
in  the  old  factory  near  Rouen. 

It  was  late  in  February  when  Pen's  mother 
and  his  Aunt  Millicent  reached  Havre,  and 
took  the  next  available  train  up  to  Rouen. 
They  had  not  heard  from  Pen  since  sailing,  and 
they  were  almost  beside  themselves  with  anxi- 
ety and  apprehension.  But  the  telephone 
service  between  the  city  and  its  faubourgs  is 
excellent,  Aunt  Millicent  could  speak  French 
with  comparative  fluency,  and  it  was  not  many 
minutes  after  their  arrival  before  they  had  ob- 
tained connection  with  the  hospital  and  were 
talking  with  Miss  Byron. 

"He  is  very  ill,"  she  said,  "but  we  feel  that 
the  crisis  of  his  disease  has  passed,  and  we  hope 
for  his  recovery." 

So,  then,  he  was  still  living,  and  there  was 
hope.  In  the  early  twilight  of  the  winter  even- 


THE  FLAG  305 

ing  the  two  women  rode  out  to  the  suburban 
town  and  went  up  to  the  hospital  to  see  him. 
He  did  not  open  his  eyes,  nor  recognize  them 
in  any  way,  he  did  not  even  know  that  they 
were  with  him. 

"There  have  been  many  complications  of  the 
illness  from  his  wound,"  said  the  nurse;  "double 
pneumonia,  typhoid  symptoms,  and  what  not; 
we  dared  not  hope  for  him  for  a  while,  but  we 
feel  now  that  perhaps  the  worst  is  over.  He 
has  made  a  splendid  fight  for  his  life,"  she 
added;  "he  deserves  to  win.  And  he  is  the 
favorite  of  the  hospital.  Every  one  loves  him. 
The  first  question  all  my  patients  ask  me  when 
I  make  my  first  round  for  the  day  is  'How  is 
the  young  American  lieutenant  this  morning?' 
Oh,  if  good  wishes  and  genuine  affection  can 
keep  him  with  us,  he  will  stay." 

So,  with  tear-wet  faces,  grateful  yet  still 
anxious,  the  two  women  left  him  for  the  night 
and  sought  hospitality  at  a  modest  pension  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  hospital. 

But  a  precious  life  still  hung  in  the  balance. 
As  he  had  lain  for  many  days,  so  the  young 
soldier  continued  to  lie,  for  many  days  to  come, 


306  THE  FLAG 

apparently  without  thought  or  vitality,  save 
that  those  who  watched  him  could  catch  now 
and  then  a  low  murmur  from  his  lips,  and 
could  see  the  faint  rise  and  fall  of  his  scarred 
and  bandaged  breast. 

Then,  so  slowly  that  it  seemed  to  those  who 
looked  lovingly  on  that  ages  were  going  by,  he 
began  definitely  to  mend.  He  could  open  his 
eyes,  and  move  his  head  and  hands,  and  he 
seemed  to  grasp,  by  degrees,  the  fact  that  his 
mother  and  his  Aunt  Millicent  were  often  sit- 
ting at  his  bedside.  But  when  he  tried  to 
speak  his  tongue  would  not  obey  his  will. 

One  day,  when  he  awakened  from  a  refresh- 
ing sleep,  he  seemed  brighter  and  stronger  than 
he  had  been  at  ajiy  time  before.  The  two 
women  whom  he  most  loved  were  sitting  on 
opposite  sides  of  his  cot,  and  his  devoted  and 
delighted  nurse  stood  near  by,  smiling  down  on 
him.  He  smiled  back  up  at  each  of  them  in 
turn,  but  he  made  no  attempt  to  speak.  He 
seemed  to  know  that  he  had  not  yet  the  power 
of  articulation. 

His  cot,  in  an  alcove  at  the  end  of  the  main 
aisle,  was  so  placed  that,  when  the  curtains 


THE  FLAG  307 

were  drawn  aside,  he  could,  at  will,  look  down 
the  long  rows  of  beds  where  once  the  looms  had 
clattered,  and  watch  wan  faces,  and  recumbent 
forms  under  the  white  spreads,  and  nurses, 
some  garbed  in  white,  and  some  in  blue,  and 
some  in  more  sober  colors,  moving  gently  about 
among  the  sufferers  in  performance  of  their 
thrice-blest  and  most  angelic  tasks.  It  was 
there  that  he  was  looking  now,  and  the  two 
women  at  his  bedside  who  were  watching  him, 
saw  that  his  eyes  were  fixed,  with  strange  inten- 
sity, on  some  object  in  the  distance.  They 
turned  to  see  what  it  was.  To  their  utter  as- 
tonishment and  dismay  they  discovered,  march- 
ing up  the  aisle,  accompanied  by  an  infirmiere, 
Colonel  Richard  Butler.  Whence,  when,  and 
how  he  had  come,  they  knew  not.  He  stopped 
at  the  entrance  to  the  alcove,  and  held  up  his 
hand  as  though  demanding  silence.  And  there 
was  silence.  No  one  spoke  or  stirred.  He 
looked  down  at  Pen  who  lay,  still  speech- 
less, staring  up  at  him  in  surprise  and  de- 
light. 

Into  the  colonel's  glowing  face  there  came  a 
look  of  tenderness,  of  rapt  sympathy,  of  exult- 


308  THE  FLAG 

ant  pride,  that  those  who  saw  it  will  never  for- 
get. 

He  stepped  lightly  forward  and  took  Pen's 
limp  hand  in  his  and  pressed  it  gently. 

"God  bless  you,  my  boy!"  he  said. 

No  one  had  ever  heard  Richard  Butler  say 
"God  bless  you"  before,  and  no  one  ever  heard 
him  say  it  again.  But  when  he  said  it  that  day 
to  the  dark-haired,  white  faced,  war-worn  sol- 
dier on  the  cot  in  the  hospital  near  Rouen,  the 
words  came  straight  from  a  big,  and  brave,  and 
tender  heart. 

He  laid  Pen's  hand  slowly  back  on  the  coun- 
terpane, and  then  he  parted  his  white  mous- 
tache, as  he  had  done  that  night  at  the  hotel  in 
New  York,  and  bent  over  and  kissed  the  boy's 
forehead.  It  may  have  been  the  rapture  of  the 
kiss  that  did  it ;  God  knows ;  but  at  that  moment 
Pen's  tongue  was  loosened,  his  lips  parted,  and 
he  cried  out : 

"Grandfather!" 

With  a  judgment  and  a  self-denial  rare 
among  men,  the  colonel  answered  the  boy's 
greeting  with  another  gentle  hand-clasp,  and  a 
beneficent  smile,  and  turned  and  marched 


THE  FLAG  309 

proudly  and  gratefully  back  down  the  long 
aisle,  stopping  here  and  there  to  greet  some 
sick  soldier  who  had  given  him  a  friendly  look 
or  smile,  until  he  stood  in  the  open  doorway 
and  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  gaze  on  the  blue  line  of 
distant  hills  across  the  Seine. 

Later,  when  the  two  women  came  to  him, 
and  he  went  with  them  to  the  pension  where 
they  were  staying,  he  explained  to  them  the 
cause  of  his  sudden  and  unheralded  appear- 
ance. He  had  received  their  cablegrams  in- 
deed; but  these,  instead  of  serving  to  allay  his 
anxiety,  had  made  it  only  the  more  acute.  To 
wait  now  for  letters  was  impossible.  His  pa- 
tience was  utterly  exhausted.  He  could  no 
more  have  remained  quietly  at  home  than  he 
could  have  shut  up  his  eyes  and  ears  and  mouth 
and  lain  quietly  down  to  die.  The  call  that 
came  to  him  from  the  bed  of  his  beloved  grand- 
son in  France,  that  sounded  in  his  ears  day- 
time and  night-time  as  he  paced  the  floors  of 
Bannerhall,  was  too  insistent  and  imperious  to 
be  resisted.  Against  the  vigorous  protests  of 
his  niece,  and  the  timid  remonstrances  of  the 
few  friends  who  were  made  aware  of  his  pur- 


310  THE  FLAG 

pose,  he  put  himself  in  readiness  to  sail  on  the 
next  out-going  steamer  that  would  carry  him  to 
his  longed-for  destination.  And  it  was  only 
after  he  had  boarded  the  vessel,  and  had  felt 
the  slow  movement  of  the  ship  as  she  was 
warped  out  into  the  stream,  that  he  became  con- 
tented, comfortable,  thoroughly  at  ease  in  body 
and  mind,  and  ready  to  await  patiently  what- 
ever might  come  to  him  at  the  end  of  his 
journey. 

So  it  was  in  good  health  and  spirits  that  he 
landed  at  Havre,  came  up  to  Rouen,  and  made 
his  way  to  the  hospital. 

And  for  once  in  her  life  his  daughter  did  not 
chide  him.  Instinctively  she  felt  the  power  of 
the  great  tenderness  and  yearning  in  his  breast 
that  had  impelled  him  to  come,  and,  so  far  as 
any  word  of  disapproval  was  concerned,  she 
was  silent. 

He  talked  much  about  Pen.  He  asked  what 
they  had  learned  concerning  his  bravery  in  bat- 
tle, the  manner  in  which  he  had  received  his 
wounds,  the  nature  of  his  long  illness,  and  the 
probability  of  his  continued  convalescence. 

"I  hope,"  said  Pen's  mother,  "that  I  shall  be 


THE  FLAG  311 

able  to  take  him  back  to  Lowbridge  next 
month." 

The  old  man  looked  up  in  surprise  and 
alarm. 

"To  Lowbridge?"  he  said,  and  added:  "Not 
to  Lowbridge,  Sarah  Butler.  My  grandson 
will  return  to  Bannerhall,  the  home  of  his  an- 
cestors." 

"Colonel  Butler,  my  son's  home  is  with  me." 

"And  your  home,"  replied  the  colonel,  "is 
with  me.  My  son's  widow  must  no  longer  live 
under  any  other  roof  than  mine.  The  day  of 
estrangement  has  fully  passed.  You  will  find 
welcome  and  affection,  and,  I  hope,  an  abund- 
ance of  happiness  at  Bannerhall." 

She  did  not  answer  him ;  she  could  not.  Nor 
did  he  demand  an  answer.  He  seemed  to 
take  it  for  granted  that  his  wish  in  the  matter 
would  be  complied  with,  and  his  will  obeyed. 
But  it  was  not  until  his  daughter  Millicent,  by 
much  argument  and  persuasion,  through  many 
days,  had  convinced  her  that  her  place  was  with 
them,  that  her  son's  welfare  and  his  grand- 
father's length  of  days  depended  on  both 
mother  and  son  complying  with  Colonel  But- 


312  THE  FLAG 

ler's  wish  and  demand,  that  she  consented  to 
blot  out  the  past  and  to  go  to  live  at  Banner- 
hall. 

It  was  on  the  second  day  of  April,  1917,  that 
the  President  of  the  United  States  read  his 
world  famous  message  to  Congress,  asking  that 
body  to  "declare  the  recent  course  of  the  Im- 
perial German  Government  to  be  in  fact  noth- 
ing less  than  war  against  the  Government  and 
people  of  the  United  States"  and  to  "employ 
all  of  its  resources  to  bring  the  Government  of 
Germany  to  terms  and  to  end  the  war." 

And  it  was  on  the  third  day  of  April  that 
Colonel  Richard  Butler,  walking  up  the  long 
aisle  of  the  war  hospital  near  Rouen  in  the  late 
afternoon,  smiled  and  nodded  to  right  and  left 
and  said : 

"At  last  we  are  with  you;  we  are  with  you. 
America  has  answered  the  call  of  her  con- 
science, she  will  now  come  into  her  own." 

And  they  smiled  back  at  him,  did  these  worn 
and  broken  men,  for  the  news  of  the  Presi- 
dent's declaration  had  already  filtered  through 
the  wards;  and  they  waved  their  hands  to  the 
brave  American  colonel  with  the  white  mous- 


THE  FLAG  313 

tache,  stern  visage,  and  tender  heart,  and  in 
sturdy  English  and  voluble  French  and  mu- 
sical Italian,  they  congratulated  him  and  his 
noble  grandson,  and  the  charming  ladies  of  his 
family,  on  the  splendid  words  of  his  President, 
to  which  words  the  patriotic  Congress  would 
surely  respond. 

And  Congress  did  respond.  The  Senate  on 
April  4,  and  the  House  on  April  6,  by  over- 
whelming majorities,  passed  a  resolution  in  full 
accordance  with  the  President's  recommenda- 
tion, declaring  that  a  state  of  war  had  been 
thrust  upon  the  United  States  by  the  German 
government,  and  authorizing  and  directing  the 
President  "to  employ  the  entire  naval  and  mili- 
tary forces  of  the  United  States,  and  the  re- 
sources of  the  government,  to  carry  on  war 
against  the  Imperial  German  government." 

Colonel  Richard  Butler  was  at  last  content. 

"I  am  proud  of  my  country,"  he  declared, 
"and  of  my  President  and  Congress.  I  have 
cabled  the  congressman  from  my  district  to 
tender  my  congratulations  to  Mr.  Wilson,  and 
to  offer  my  services  anew  in  whatever  capacity 
my  government  can  use  them." 


314  THE  FLAG 

If  he  had  favored  the  Allied  cause  before  go- 
ing abroad  he  was  now  thrice  the  partisan  that 
he  had  been.  For  he  had  seen  France.  He 
had  seen  her,  bled  white  in  her  heroic  endeavor 
to  drive  the  invader  from  her  soil.  He  had 
seen  her  ruined  homes,  and  cities,  and  temples 
of  art.  He  had  seen  her  women  and  her  aged 
fathers  and  her  young  children  doing  the  work 
of  her  able-bodied  men  who  were  on  the  fight- 
ing line,  replacing  those  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands who  were  lying  in  heroes'  graves.  He 
had  been,  by  special  favor,  taken  to  the  front, 
where  he  had  seen  the  still  grimmer  visage  of 
war,  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  life  in  the 
trenches,  of  death  on  the  field,  and  had  heard 
the  sweep  and  the  rattle  and  the  roar  of  un- 
ceasing conflict.  And  in  his  eyes  and  voice  as 
he  walked  up  and  down  the  aisles  of  the  hos- 
pital near  Rouen,  or  sat  at  the  bedside  of  his 
grandson,  was  always  a  reflection  of  these 
things  that  he  himself  had  seen  and  heard. 

And  he  was  a  favorite  in  the  wards.  Not 
alone  because  he  so  often  came  with  his  one  arm 
laden  with  little  material  things  to  cheer  and 
comfort  them,  but  because  these  men  with  the 


THE  FLAG  315 

pierced  and  broken  and  mutilated  bodies  ad- 
mired and  liked  him.  Whenever  they  saw  the 
familiar  figure,  tall,  soldierly,  the  sternly  be- 
nevolent countenance  with  its  white  moustache 
and  kindling  eyes,  enter  at  the  hospital  doors 
and  walk  up  between  the  long  rows  of  cots, 
their  faces  would  light  up  with  pleasure  and 
admiration,  and  the  friendliness  of  their  greet- 
ings would  be  hearty  and  unalloyed. 

Somehow  they  seemed  to  look  upon  him  as 
the  symbol  and  representative  of  his  country, 
the  very  embodiment  of  the  spirit  of  his  own 
United  States.  And  now  that  his  government 
had  definitely  entered  into  the  war,  he  was  in 
their  eyes,  thrice  the  hero  and  the  benefactor 
that  he  had  been  before. 

When  he  entered  the  hospital  the  morning 
after  news  of  America's  war  declaration  had 
been  received,  and  turned  to  march  up  the  aisle 
toward  his  grandson's  alcove,  he  was  surprised 
and  delighted  to  see  from  every  cot  in  the  ward, 
and  from  every  nurse  on  the  floor,  a  hand  thrust 
up  holding  a  tiny  American  flag.  It  was  the 
hospital's  greeting  to  the  American  colonel,  in 
honor  of  his  country.  He  stood,  for  a  mo- 


316  THE  FLAG 

ment,  thrilled  and  amazed.  The  demonstra- 
tion struck  so  deeply  into  his  big  and  patriotic 
heart  that  his  voice  choked  and  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears  as  he  passed  up  the  long  aisle. 

There  were  many  greetings  as  he  went  by. 

"Hurrah  for  the  President!" 

"Vive  1'Amerique!" 

And  one  deep-throated  Briton,  in  a  voice 
that  rolled  from  end  to  end  of  the  ward 
shouted : 

"God  bless  the  United  States!" 

But  perhaps  no  one  was  more  rejoiced  over 
the  fact  of  America's  entrance  into  the  war 
than  was  Penfield  Butler.  From  the  moment 
when  he  heard  the  news  of  the  President's  mes- 
sage he  seemed  to  take  on  new  life.  And  as 
each  day's  paper  recorded  the  developing 
movements,  and  the  almost  universal  sentiment 
of  the  American  people  in  sustaining  the  gov- 
ernment at  Washington,  his  pulses  thrilled, 
color  came  into  his  blanched  face,  and  new  light 
into  eyes  that  not  long  before  had  looked  for 
many  weeks  at  material  things  and  had  seen 
them  not. 

He  was  sitting  up  in  his  bed  that  morning, 


THE  FRENCH  HOSPITAL'S  GREETING  TO  THE  AMERICAN  COLONEL 


p.  316 


THE  FLAG  317 

and  had  seen  his  grandfather  come  up  the  aisle 
amid  the  forest  of  little  flags  and  the  sound  of 
cheering  voices. 

Grouped  around  him  were 'his  mother,  his 
Aunt  Millicent,  the  mcdicin-chef \  and  his  de- 
voted nurse,  the  American  girl,  Miss  Byron. 
She  was  waving  a  small,  silk  American  flag 
that  had  long  been  one  of  her  cherished  pos- 
sessions. 

"We  are  so  proud  of  America  to-day,  Col- 
onel Butler,"  she  exclaimed,  "that  we  can't 
help  cheering  and  waving  flags." 

And  the  mcdicin-chef  shouted  joyously: 

"A  la  bonne  lieure,  non  Colonel!" 

Pen,  looking  on  with  glowing  eyes  and 
cheeks  flushed  with  enthusiasm,  called  out : 

"Grandfather,  isn't  it  glorious?  If  I  could 
only  fight  it  all  over  again,  now,  under  my  own 
American  flag! " 

Colonel  Butler's  face  had  never  before  been 
so  radiant,  his  eyes  so  tender,  or  his  voice  so 
vibrant  with  emotion  as  when  standing  on  the 
raised  edge  of  the  alcove,  he  replied : 

"On  behalf  of  my  beloved  country,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  I  thank  you.  She  has  taken  her 


318  THE  FLAG 

rightful  place  on  the  side  of  humanity.  Her 
flag,  splendid  and  spotless,  floats,  to-day,  side 
by  side  with  the  tri-color  and  the  Union  Jack, 
over  the  manhood  of  nations  united  to  save  the 
world  from  bondage  and  barbarism." 

He  faced  the  medicin-chef  and  continued: 
"Your  cry  to  us  to  'come  over  into  Macedonia 
and  help'  you,  shall  no  longer  go  unheeded. 
Our  wealth,  our  brains,  our  brawn  shall  be 
poured  into  your  country  as  freely  as  water,  to 
aid  you  in  bringing  the  German  tyrant  to  his 
knees,  and,  as  our  great  President  has  said: 
'To  make  the  world  safe  for  democracy.' ' 

He  turned  toward  the  rapt  faces  of  the  lis- 
tening scores  who  lined  the  wards:  "And 
men,  my  brothers,  I  say  to  you  that  you  have 
not  fought  and  suffered  in  vain.  We  shall  win 
this  war;  and  out  of  our  great  victory  shall 
come  that  thousand  years  of  peace  foretold  by 
holy  men  of  old,  in  which  your  flag,  and  yours, 
and  yours,  and  mine,  floating  over  the  heads  of 
freemen  in  each  beloved  land,  will  be  the  most 
inspiring,  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  splendid 
thing  on  which  the  sun's  rays  shall  ever  fall." 


Short  Historical  Sketch  of  the 
United  States  Flag 

After  the  war  of  the  Revolution,  it  became  necessary 
for  the  newly  formed  United  States  of  America  to  devise 
a  symbol,  representing  their  freedom.  During  the  war 
the  different  colonies  had  displayed  various  flags,  but  no 
national  emblem  had  been  selected.  The  American  Con- 
gress, consequently,  on  the  14th  of  June,  1777,  passed  the 
following  Resolution: 

"Resolved,  That  the  flag  of  the  thirteen  united  states 
shall  be  thirteen  stripes,  alternate  red  and  white,  that 
the  union  be  thirteen  stars,  white  in  a  blue  field,  repre- 
senting a  new  constellation." 

Betsy  Ross,  an  upholsterer,  living  at  239  Arch  Street, 

Philadelphia,  Pa.,  had  the  honor  of  making  the  first  flag 

for  the  new  republic.    The  little  house  where  she  lived  is 

still   standing,   and  preserved  as   a  memorial.     This   flag 

contained  the  thirteen  stripes  as  at  present,  but  the  stars 

were  arranged  in  a  circle.     This  arrangement  was  later 

changed  to  horizontal  lines,  and  the  flag  continued  to  have 

thirteen    stars    and   thirteen    stripes   until    1795.       When 

Vermont  and  Kentucky  were  added  to  the   Union,  two 

more  stripes,  as  well  as  two  more  stars,  were  added.   In  1817, 

it  was  seen  that  it  would  not  be  practicable  to  add  a  new 

stripe  for  each  new  state  admitted  to  the  Union,  so  after 

deliberation,  Congress,  in  1818,  passed  the  following  Act: 

"An  Act  to  establish  the  flag  of  the  United  States. 

"Sec.  1.    That  from  and  after  the  4th  of  July  next,  the 

flag  of  the  United  States  be  thirteen  horizontal  stripes, 

alternate  red  and  white — that  the  Union  have  twenty 

stars,  white  in  a  blue  field. 

"Sec.  2.  Be  it  further  enacted,  that  on  the  admission 
of  every  new  State  into  the  Union,  one  star  be  added 
to  the  Union  of  the  flag,  and  that  such  addition  shall 
take  effect  on  the  4th  of  July  next  succeeding  such 
admission." 

Since  the  passing  of  this  Act,  star  after  star  has  been 
added  to  the  blue  field  until  it  now  contains  forty-eight, 
each  one  representing  a  staunch  and  loyal  adherent. 


Boy  Scouts  Pledge  to  the  Flag 
"I  pledge  allegiance  to  my  flag  and  to  the  Republic  for 
which  it  stands;  one  nation  indivisible,  with  liberty  and 
justice  for  all." 


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